Normal Again
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sherlock lives with John in Baker Street post S2, but all is not as it should be. Sherlock is finding himself increasingly unable to trust his own mind, creating a fearful and confusing world. Strange and inexplicable visions, thoughts and ideas leach increasingly frequently into his world, until Sherlock finds himself vacillating between worlds both familiar and unfamiliar...Why?
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE: REALITY**

 _ **I could recognise him by touch alone, by smell. I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth… I would know him in death, at the end of the world.**_

 **(The Song of Achilles)**

* * *

(POV: Sherlock)

 **Part 1: Ben**

My bedclothes feel hot, rough and strange across my skin and I sigh deeply, resignedly, since I realise I am slightly untethered and entirely sleepless. I writhe left, then right, twisting an intolerably itchy sheet across my shoulder, and turning into the coolest part of my mattress. My mind twists through endless machinations (much in the manner of my bedding) as a current case spreads out sluggishly through its winding corridors.

 _Broadbent is slightly less than five foot seven inches, therefore his reach would do nothing to involve him in the case of the missing almonds…_

I turn, I twist, I burn with indecision.

 _Helena Carter is slightly more than five foot eight inches and more than capable of reaching for the platter… if she could reach within a single stretch, then the case is resolved._

I turn again, facing a window lit dimly by the dawn's early light and recall the events of the previous morning, in a cluttered and overcrowded kitchen in Battersea.

"Hold him a moment please, Mr Holmes, I need to change the filter on the coffee machine ..."

(Teeth, eyes, hands, cuffs = non-coffee drinker = liar)

Helena Carter holds forth -

A baby.

"No…"

"Sure, he's just a wee baby…"

The creature's eyes bore into mine and I contemplate the infant paradigm. A child of less than seven months, with no chance to have formed barriers or judgements …

Blue, bright, glistening with curiosity and the merest hint of uncertainty (gratifying, I must admit); small, compact fingers plucking at my coat; unstable, over-large head bobbing, as he attempts both to see and to maintain certainty. I look at Broadbent`s son and see his measure of me.

He catches my eyes (since I find I must look nowhere else) and I sense a hitch within his tiny chest, and the ghost of a fidget within his legs as he realises he is in the grasp of an interloper; an ignoramus. The weight of him pulls against my hands (large, capable) and I draw him up towards my eyeline (unblinking; astonishingly encompassing).

"See," intones his mother, without sincerity, "he likes you."

She reaches for a jar from the cupboard and I see her fingers grasp the coffee easily (too easily) and the child wriggles, as if he senses his mother's (93% certain) guilt and is discomforted. He is also becoming increasingly heavy, causing me to adjust my stance slightly, tighten my grip and become silently grateful at the tardiness of New Scotland Yard (Lestrade's camera phone can be a menace at times like this).

His head twists askance, as if to question his comfort (and safety) within my arms; those cerulean blue eyes flashing in question at my own, and I find I am speaking to him (soothing him?):

"Hush, Ben, you're fine … do hold still, you're fine."

And I look up to see his mother, potential poisoner (95% sure, and increasing) staring at me oddly as she pretends to sip a (very bitter) cup of coffee and awaits the police.

"His name is Joey," she informs me, and I glance back, taking in his oddly familiar tousled dark hair and pale skin, and I ask myself the question which will later come back to haunt my conscious, sleep deprived nights, amongst twisted sheets and encroaching dawns.

So then, who on earth is Ben?

 **~x~**

 **Part 2: Mary**

John throws his jacket across the back of the sofa, cascading bus tickets, loose change and wrappers from two (no, three) cereal bars in a small waterfall of detritus which, for the most part, will never be seen again. I deduce his caseload to be stretched to its maximum, his diet to be challenged and his reliance on energy boosting products to be dangerously high.

"There is a new branch of Holland & Barrett opened on the Edgware Road which should be more convenient for your surgery."

He twists a fatigued glance in my direction, just as he he twists the cap from his first beer. It would, most likely, not be his last.

"Not tonight, Sherlock. Too knackered." He pulls his coat from the sofa and I catch a glimpse of left hand, just below its first knuckle. Eyebrow pencil (moderately expensive brand, mid brown), phone number with a South West London code (up and coming, but very much rented accommodation for the single semi-professional). I also recall the conversation of the previous evening over dim sum (third night in a row - John too tired to cook).

"The interviews clearly went well today. You seem to have procured a new practise nurse to help with the workload."

Despite his poor humour, a smile flickers at the corner of his mouth as if retracing a memory of the day.

"Yeah, I did that."

I cannot fail to note the singular pronoun.

"When are you taking her out?"

He is shaking his head at me, but he is smiling.

"Thursday," he grins, taking a swig. "And her name is Mary."

 **~x~**

That night, I writhe in a half sleep, feet grazing the bedstead as I turn, waking from whirling ideas, half formed and instantly forgotten. Words, murmurs from a garrulous yet amorphous subconscious slide in and out, as do faces, and on waking for the umpteenth time I feel a dry warmth spreading from my face across my body. I also note I am not alone. A cool and adept hand rests gently but efficiently across my forehead; a dim light issues from the hall.

"You're burning up, Sherlock, you need some paracetamol to reduce this temperature."

John Watson, he always has my back.

I murmur words and he leans in, dropping the pills in my hand, pressing water to my mouth.

"You're mumbling. Take these. You've been groaning and mumbling for an hour." I dimly see his teeth glinting in the half light, relieved he isn't angry with me.

"She has no family." My words are clearly formed, despite being spoken through the powdery crunch of tablets.

"What?"

"An orphan's lot."

"Sherlock, it's so late, and I'm shattered. I'm just going to ring Greg and tell him he has to leave you alone for at least twenty-four hours until you've shaken this thing, taxidermy warehouse robbery or not."

I roll across the sweat-soaked sheets, closing my eyes, to shut it all out; to focus.

"Bakes her own bread, size 12, cat lover, disillusioned Lib-Dem voter…"

I feel the bed dip with his weight, and a cool, concerned hand gently touches my shoulder.

"What the hell is this? Who are you talking about, Sherlock? You're not making a modicum of sense, even for you. Mate, this is scaring me…"

"She has a secret tattoo, and an appendix scar…"

His breathing tells me he is impatient and slightly fearful as his grip tightens on my shoulder -

" _Who_? Sherlock, _who are you talking about_?" My eyes fly open, and I see navy-blue eyes, pupils dilated, concern, for me.

"She is clever and romantic, a linguist, John, but you _must_ be careful." I hold his wrist as I hold his stare.

"Mary Morstan- she is also a _liar_."

 **~x~**

John does not speak to me unless absolutely necessary until that Friday morning, after his first evening out with Mary Morstan, and then it is just bitten out as he lifts toast from the table I sit at, making his way to the door.

"I don't want to hear anything else you might `know` about her."

"John, I didn't deduce Mary- "

"No, of course you didn't."

"I`ve never met her. I just _knew_ \- "

Hostile, defensive, angry.

"Just keep out, Sherlock. For once, just keep out of my… _stuff_."

And with a slamming door, he disappears down the stairs whilst I sit at our breakfast table, staring into the middle distance, pushing down a rising, sinuous thread of fear that is snaking its way upwards and inwards. This is not indicative of having an eidetic memory, or even a fevered dream; I am seeing familiarity where there should be none - first the baby, Joey (Ben) and now John`s new practise nurse, whom I know I have never met, yet inexplicably _know_. My brain, a trusted and beloved instrument, so finely honed and nurtured, so calibrated and fed with only the most select and delectable of facts, should not flicker in this way ( _engine warning light?_ ), should not shake loose of its moorings. I place a slightly shaking hand across the table to my (cold) tea cup, then leave go, before the rattle begins in the saucer. Without my mind, I am a mere appendix, a detritus of useless bone, flesh and cartilage. Fighting down the swell of panic, I decide that theories cannot be tailored until sufficient data is collated.

I crave more data, at the same time as fearing its discovery.

Time will tell.

 **~x~**

 **Part 3: Seiga**

Mycroft has a new toy, a new ornament for his fortress of solitude.

I calculate late Victorian, judging by the glue sizing used on the tiny sails and the type of sailing ship imprisoned improbably within its glass walls. Miniature golden writing, scrolled over a century ago names ` _SS Appledore`_ as my brother's latest acquisition (perched at an inappropriate angle at the edge of his ridiculous desk, no doubt that I should notice it whilst he keeps me waiting, to show who's in charge… _brother mine_ ). A ship inside a bottle is truly a most germane nick-nack for my brother to own; everything completely trapped, yet frozen in its most glorious state for his appreciation. Mycroft hates uncertainty and he hates loose ends; his standards are unfeasibly high, and doubly cruel, since he knows few who can ever aspire to them (yet how he adores to watch them dance). Thus, it is with a small affectation of surprise that I note something more than a little out of place.

"Your windows, Mycroft, are dirty." He has entered the room, in the manner of a Grand Vizier, posture ridiculously formal. He knows I`ve noticed the ship, and realigns it to a more pleasing, yet less visible position, as I knew he would.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. They were cleaned this morning." He unloads a sheaf of papers across his desk. Swedish Embassy. Most likely linked to the recent scandal involving a minor member of their Royal family. I am not interested, and await my opportunity to tell him so.

"Smeary," I contradict. "Blurry on every pane. Perhaps your window cleaners are offering a silent protest on account of the recent government cuts within the department…"

"Of which you know-"

"A little."

" _Nothing_."

We look at each other for a beat, and I smile. The light is dim in here, yet I note a tiny twitch in the corner of his set mouth. He hates that I noticed it, too. Sighing, Mycroft gestures towards the paper across his desk, coming to the heart of the matter.

"No doubt you have ascertained the nature of the assignment I wish to consult you over-"

" _Jag har inget intresse av sexuella preferenser våra skandinaviska grannar, Mycroft."*_

His left eyebrow rises and his head inclines as he ceases his (fake) perusal of the documents before him (he clearly knows the case inside out since he has deemed it safe enough for my involvement) and I know I have surprised him.

But I don't know why.

"Goodness, I must admit to being impressed at such sudden fluency, Sherlock. Perhaps you have been attending night classes? Doctor Watson's latest romance may perhaps be leaving you... _adrift?"_

I shake my head, his taunting a secondary concern, whilst my own lack of comprehension stirring a rising, familiar panic which, hatefully, allows an outbreak of sweat across my upper lip and a prickling across my forehead. Is this what it's like for them? For others? Is this what confusion feels like?

Mycroft`s Icelandic gaze has softened slightly (an appalling sign) and I find my hands gripping the mahogany arms of the Chippendale chair beneath me.

"Sherlock… are you-?" I cannot allow him to finish.

"I am _fine_ , thank you." My heartbeat is choppy; sporadic and fluttering, and my vision is flickering ( _those windows weren't dirty at all, were they?_ )

He stands, still staring at me, then checks himself and gestures again to the papers.

"A very ancient family is at risk here, Sherlock. Blackmail is more than repugnant, as I am sure you are aware."

Mycroft knows how I abhore blackmailers and their ilk. With a smiling face and a heart of marble, they squeeze and squeeze their victims until they have drained them dry; slithery, gliding, venomous creatures - but still I resist. Opening my mouth, I say:

" _Jag är ingen mellanhand för monied klasser, Mycroft. De är rika, låt dem betala och har gjort med det."*_

This time, I hear it- a language I have never studied issuing forth from my mouth as if I was born and bred in Stockholm, or Uppsala. I openly stare at my brother, who's worried countenance blurs horribly as the edges of the room swim and slide across my vision. He is standing now, paperwork forgotten, superciliousness forgotten, only a fearful etching of concern across a brow unused to such recondite emotion.

"Sherlock- "

I stand, since I see and recognise her immediately.

Walking across that silent Turkish carpet towards my brother's mahogany desk, she turns and smiles at me. Tiny, impish, dark curls as unruly as my own, and blue, translucent eyes that upturn in the corners, like my own. Dark brows, sharp movements (not a wasted footfall or a superfluous gesture), a final, arrogant launch into my brother's chair and a lifting of pixie-like feet onto his precious desk.

Her boots are, I note, muddy.

" _Du kommer att vara i en sådan problem min kära,"*_ I smile as she blows smoke rings behind my brother's back. ( _Is he blind, or merely ignoring what is clearly unsupportable behaviour?)_

" _Jag föddes i trubbel, älskling,"_ *replies she, flicking ash carelessly across the torrid tales of a Swedish Royal for whom a gentle sauna with a lady friend was never going to be enough.

Considering her parentage, I know she is far from joking and nod in my own acquiescence. As if jarring a precious gyroscope upon its perilous journey, I find all is lost from that moment and it is only my brother's firm grip that stops my toppling into his desk, spilling his documents and trinkets as I fall.

My vision fades in and out as I lie across his beautifully crafted carpet, amongst shards of broken glass, listening to the chaos that ensues at my brother's office when he imagines I have been indulging in my favourite poison.

But I have not.

She stands above me, the only true image I may latch onto at this moment (as I feel my consciousness ebbing, like tissue paper in a dirty puddle).

"Seiga," I say, _"Det har varit så länge. Jag har saknat dig fruktansvärt ."*_

Her face swims into view, just before I black out, as she kneels down beside me.

" _Jag kommer att se dig igen, lillebror. Jag älskar dig."_

And I am gone.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Swedish translation (apologies to any Swedish readers!):**

 *** I am not an intermediary for the monied classes, Mycroft. They are rich. Let them pay and have done with it.**

 *** I have no interest in the preferences of our Scandinavian neighbours, Mycroft.**

 *** You will be in such trouble, my dear.**

 *** I was born in trouble, darling.**

 *** It's been so long. I missed your terribly.**

 *** I will see you again little brother, I love you.**

* * *

 **This story exists on several levels, and I thought long and hard about its implications before, during and after writing it. Based on a Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode of the same name, it tells of a man (Sherlock) trapped between two worlds, not knowing which one is real, and leading to some ranging and life-changing discoveries. It marks the entanglement of two of my universes, and the battle between them. I have included POV guides, since I do swap between them a fair bit and didn't want to confuse anyone more than I had to. It has been a constant worry that I would perplex and befuddle my lovely readers, so I hope this all makes enough sense for you all.**

 **Warning: there is serious illness and a fair bit of angst herein, but I PROMISE a happy ending, since know no other way to end things. The most prevalent theme, I hope, is love, since that is always the peg I hang my hat on.**

 **Thank you for reading, and feedback nourishes my overly dramatic soul.**

 **Emma x**


	2. Molly

(Sherlock POV)

 **Part 4: Molly**

Searing and bright, fluorescent lights flicker invasively above my face, permeating thin flesh and skin before my eyes are even open. Clashing, metallic trolleys trundling through a nearby corridor, and the smell is bleach, antiseptic, faint redolent gravy; more sounds of distant vehicles stopping at lights with a very familiar changing pattern on a very familiar roundabout-

"Bart's" I murmur, without opening my eyes; it seems irrelevant; unnecessary.

I know exactly where I am.

The (faintly awkward?) rustle of fabric and ghost of … _honeysuckle_. A lanyard rattling against a necklace and the top button of a cherry patterned cardigan.

"Molly." A confirmation rather than a question.

More shuffling. A huffing breath as a faint tug (gentle) tells of a slight adjustment of the drip attached to my cannula. Rustling of - a _skirt_? No trousers today? Also, no morgue today, since I am (hopefully) _not dead_. She comes back, turning on her low heeled shoes (slightly worn at on the heels of both) and I sense her hesitation and feel the faintest of breaths. She is looking at my closed down face, possibly wondering how conscious I am and debating whether to speak, or what to say. _Awkward_ Molly, always trying to apologise for her existence; always judging me to be a better man than I actually am.

A horn beeps below from the Giltspur junction, jolting my eyes wide open to let in the fluorescence of the small room and the large, brown eyes of Molly Hooper.

"Oh! You _are_ awake. I wasn't entirely sure."

 _Obviously_ , I want to say, but somehow, I don't. I just look.

"You gave everyone such a fright, fainting like that."

Ah, so the toxicology report is in, hence the lack of a rolled up umbrella at my bedside. It would appear that I am 'clean'.

"I don't _faint_ , Molly. I am neither a Victorian heroine, nor a fan of Justin Bieber."

 _And… he`s back_ … Sarcasm drips without behest, much as the saline bag above my head. However, instead of discomfort, I note a small quirk at the corner of her small (remarkably sculpted) mouth and she looks down, away from me.

"Been to many gigs then?" She is looking back, an amused glint igniting her eyes from within, giving them a strange warmth I hadn't had cause to note before.

"Whenever she's`s in town," I return, wanting more of her gaze. "Number one fan," I add, earning a distinct snort and an embarrassed duck of her head, signalling the return of _awkward._

"Ah, well, you seem… normal." She smiles (awkward - too many teeth showing) and steps back, pulling a chart from the end of the bed and flipping through its pages. "For you, anyway," she adds, so quietly, I scarcely hear it. Before I can respond, she pulls a crumpled paper from her pocket (creased many times, indicating this had been a most frequent gesture over the past twelve hours or so) and squints slightly (left glasses somewhere else - most likely the Morgue - when she was brought here, most probably by my brother).

"Kan... du fort...farande tala svenska?*" Her words are spoken laboriously, broken down phonetically, despite the frequent practising. I shake my head.

"Rather a challenge for the recently woken?" I say, slightly teasing (but only slightly) and trying to ignore the steadily burgeoning headache beginning to nudge at my temples. She does not smile, however. The warm amber glint of Molly Hooper`s eyes is no more, and a crease forms between her bird`s wing brows as she consults her chart again, shoving the note back into her pocket.

And it is only then that I remember what happened.

 **~x~**

My brother sits across from my bed, knees primly arranged, umbrella similarly so. He is as immaculate as ever, yet the slightly askance knot of his tie and the infinitesimal flicker above his left eye gives him away; Mycroft is concerned. The question remains, am I?

"- and the current Queen of England?" The _SHO_ sits opposite, notepad erect and pen at an extremely severe angle. Her foot taps out an odd staccato rhythm and her smile is incongruous (Qualified six months, sleeping badly due to recent cohabitation with a man who is unsure of his `feelings' towards her, and trying very hard to give up smoking). Clearly Mycroft`s presence is far from helpful, and I turn to him.

"Mmm… Mycroft? Any ideas?"

He sighs.

"Do behave yourself, little brother. Please answer the nice doctor`s questions and you may even be allowed to join the world again. I imagine your inbox must be…(he smirks despicably) _overflowing_."

Turning to the _SHO_ (blonde, petite, just John Watson`s type) I bestow my most benevolent bearing; my headache can only be improved by Baker Street and a rather intriguing potential poisoning, delivered via email (health professionals rarely guard their phones efficiently, as Mycroft was more than aware of when he confiscated my own device).

"He`s already eyeing up his local barista at Starbucks," I say to the nice doctor. "Leave him, or I give it six months."

The pen has drooped and the foot has silenced. She stares at me, mouth dropped slightly open.

"When you return my clothes, you may find a packet of Benson`s in the jacket's inside pocket, one quarter full. Please accept them as a token of my gratitude."

I feel, rather than hear my brother sigh once more as she transfers her stare to his direction.

"Yes," he murmurs, standing and tapping into his phone. "He`s always been like this."

 **~x~**

I am both correct and (annoyingly) incorrect.

The poisoner is a florist, but not the florist I had first considered. I almost feel obliged to offer a few words in apology to John as we race, breathless and partially blinded by greenfly repellent, through the scented bedding plants and ten foot banana trees of Colombia Road Market, kicking aside shrubs, succulents and seedlings as we run. He is fifty metres ahead of us, greying, aged, yet deceptively spry, leaping over long boxes of hydrangeas and garden ornaments.

"The pollen was discoloured John - you were correct and I failed to address your concerns…" we are panting, but he less so than myself I am distressed to note. Perhaps Miss Morstan has encouraged a… gym membership?

"Just let`s get him!" John is focused as only a soldier can be, and I smile at him, and at the thrill of the chase as we canon around the corner -

Time slows to a frame by frame stillness, as a small, pony-tailed woman carrying a box of lilies is thrown callously across our path by the suspect; indemnity for his escape. John is sure of foot, swerving to avoid her terrified countenance and continue in pursuit, but I myself am sluggish, tired and slurred in my movements, resulting in green, long stems being launched into the air as we collide, looking towards each other, aghast at such an unnecessary pantomime… slowing down in time and space as her wide, brown eyes stare into mine and we both crumple helplessly to the ground amidst a flurry of white petals, drifting down upon us, like snow…like confetti.

 **~x~**

 _Bright pixelated sunlight bleaches down through tree branches and eyelashes as we looks up into the blueness of a perfect July day, knowing it is the most perfect July day there will ever be. Fluttering confetti is drifting down, skimming her hair, skittering across her perfect face, sticking to her perfect mouth. Her eyes shine as she is looking up into the billowing clouds of translucent paper, carried on the breeze in a maelstrom, a whirlwind of trembling whiteness that surrounds us, binding us, even more so than the ceremony has done. Reaching out for her hand, I pull her in towards me and a happiness more tangible, more present than I have ever known bubbles up into my throat, filling my mouth and eyes and rendering me speechless. She sees, and she knows._

 _"Sherlock," whispers Molly Hooper, eyes glowing hot amber through sunshine, through confetti, through my inability to say words. "I know (now shining with unshed tears). Me too." A smile and a squeeze of my hand, her wedding ring biting into it. "Me too."_

 _And music is playing, people are applauding and I am dancing with my wife, my love, my Molly, and through the confetti, all I have to do is smile._

 **~x~**

John helps me to my feet, pushing me onto an upturned barrel, eyes boring into mine, hands checking for breaks, bruises, blood… _damage_. The flower girl seems to have escaped with nothing but dirty knees and ruined lilies, but my flatmate exhibits such extreme vigilance for my welfare, I experience a cold sense of dread clamouring for attention around my bruised ribs and bloodied nose.

"He got away."

"Yeah, so what."

Anxiety and anger; two companionable bedfellows.

"Had you continued, you would have outflanked him in approximately... (I calculate) … three and a half minutes."

He abruptly interrupts his physical interrogation of my wellbeing and rams his hands atop my shoulders, apparently forgetting his role as physician, and closing his face into mine, oblivious to the bustling market flowing around us like river water.

"You- " He bites down further words, his thumbs digging into my clavicles and his eyes unable to meet with mine, until…

"You can't keep doing this…"

"Mr Hunter would perhaps prefer my absence? What is a drop or two of strychnine amongst friends, after all?"

John appears to lose all strength, and I quail slightly as his knees give way, and he sinks down next to the barrel in front of me. Looking up, his navy eyes are… saddened.

"Sherlock, you can't continue like this, lying to your friends, to yourself."

I am appalled. I can bear anything but John Watson in despair. I am unable to corral my thoughts, my recollections… there is a sense of deja vu in everything, but nothing that is tangible. His grip weakens and he pulls himself upright, offering me a hand.

"Come on, let's get you home."

Panic is rising, confusion looms, casting its fragmented net across my thoughts, my memories. If only I could loosen this appalling headache which has held me vice-like for… days…(weeks?)

"John, I'm not ill."

He dusts me down, pulling petals from my hair, my collar and he sighs.

"Yes, Sherlock, you are." Oh god, there are tears brimming over his lashes as he takes a gentle hand to my shoulder, steering me ( a person who needs steering?)

"I think you are...very... sick indeed."

And I let him lead me through crushed petals and sheaves of palm leaves as I recall my wedding to Molly Hooper, as clear as if it had been a reality.


	3. The Professor

**Part 5: The Professor**

As long as I fix my gaze on the guttering opposite my window, the nausea bubbles beneath, a little little akin to molten lava that is preparing itself within the mantle, awaiting the next powerful and spontaneous eruption. Birds often alight there a little after dawn, dampening down their beakfuls of moss and twigs and lessening the utility of Mrs Hudson's drainage (an appalling notion). Also, the man who lives in number 220 appears most mercurial in his habits, rising at 5.30, 5.40, 5.50 and 6.05 am on random weekdays (no predictability has, of yet, emerged) yet having no particular pattern to his washing, dressing or eating habits and appearing on the pavement below well after nine each day. As the magma surges and settles within my gut, I do admit in finding solace in deducing the potential habits and purpose behind my neighbour's behaviour, and wonder most frequently what he would imagine were he to notice me.

I hear John`s radio most mornings, from his room above. News, weather and superfluous nonsense now passing for `news`. Reading is impossible, but it is soothing to hear the sorry mess London has become embroiled in since I have been… absent. Kurt Von Herder, the blind and miraculously talented firearms designer, has been unfortunate enough to allow himself to be murdered. Although my other senses are partially compromised (like his), my hearing remains in excellent order as I hear Mrs Hudson and John taking tea and sniggering in regard as to "shame he never saw that coming" and other such appallingly ignorant commentary.

In addition, art thefts continue to prove of great interest to me, since risking all for the ownership of a daubed (however skilfull) canvas both serves to arrest and shock my sensibilities. Risking one's liberty to own a piece of art truly gives me hope for humanity, therefore the theft of _La Jeaune Fille a l`agneau_ from the Royal Academy (excellent security- usually) elicited a small frisson of excitement from my bedside. From the information I have been able to glean, culpability appears to rest upon the shoulders of a Mr Adam North, a man the newspapers (and, unfortunately, Lestrade) have been dubbing ` _The Napoleon of Crime_ ` and an individual I would (in normal times) have been delighted to have met.

 _But these are not normal times_.

I lie awake into the small hours, burning up, thinking, deducing, tossing and turning. The vomiting is avoided most mornings ( _mornings are the worst_ ) so long as I watch the birds and their industrious nest building. Daily, I mooch around the flat, touching things; holding them in my hands, feeling their weight and revelling in their familiarity. I have no cases and I know the clock is ticking _(tick tock)_ since I know my brother is waiting, and I know why.

John and I take tea each morning (like old times) since I cannot stomach food before midday. It appears Miss Morstan is becoming increasingly important and I regularly find myself sharing a gingernut with her over Assam and Radio 4 before nine.

"John says you think I`m a size 12."

"Mmmm."

"I`m a size 10, in anybody`s money."

"It is quite irrelevant."

"To a woman, Sherlock, it is more than relevant, believe me."

"I would dearly love to discuss beauty ideals, but I am far too busy losing my mind."

She shows no sympathy, merely lifting a biscuit and crunching it, not breaking eye contact.

"Welcome to being normal, sweetie. This is how we all think… on the other side."

And I smile a little, silently thanking her for her lies.

 **~x~**

Greying hair, thinning and sparse. A hunched, bird-like frame with hands clasped atop a cane (slight limp on right; suspected knee replacement surgery several years ago; something went awry, never properly healed) and he inclines his head towards me in an almost reptilian acknowledgement.

"Charmed we could meet again, Sherlock."

His smile splits his face, jack 'o lantern wide, and eyes of glittering haematite spit fire at me, in defiance of his aged appearance. I know that the painting ( _La Jeaune Fille a l`agneau)_ lies in a valise in a safe beneath his chair and that he has stolen it to bring himself… to my attention.

"Was Herr Von Herder really so … dispensable?" I am dizzy and nauseous and my vision is poor, but senses that are lacking may be compensated for by those that are present.

He smells of apple blossom.

"His air gun was designed for my own personal use. Its engaging ability to be deconstructed and appear invisible to airport security, however, merely encouraged more offers, and the good Mr Von Herder found himself a little too greedy. It's all fun and games, Sherlock, until someone shakes someone else's piggy bank, and then it's simply a case of ` _this little piggy had none.'"_

 _Mr North_ shrugs his shoulders, hands still grasping the amber that crowns a cane of ebony. He is quite the fairy tale villain and I may be a little enchanted.

"He was murdered, apparently, in Oslo," I add, "with a bullet from his own invention, whilst you were attending a musical gala in Newcastle upon Tyne, hosted by the Bishop of Durham. Convenient."

He closes his reptilian eyes, swaying a little as if in a private reminiscence of that evening.

"Paganini," he smiles. " _Caprice No. 24._ Exquisite."

I quite agree. How I miss my violin.

"Such a shame you no longer play, Sherlock." He opens his eyes slowly, a sickly pastiche of sympathy pursing his mouth into a moue of concern. "The game simply isn't the same without you."

Still breathless from the cab journey here (John will be furious when he finds me gone) I inhale deeply and attempt to still my tremulous hands by grasping hard at the chair I sit within.

"To everything there is a season, Mr North. All lives must end. All hearts are broken."

He rises then, taking his full height to loom above me, a dark spectre, a criminal genius, a spider sitting in the centre of his web, deciding who shall live and who shall be ended. Sweat trickles down my back, cleaving between my shoulder blades and across ribs that chafe within a shirt that used to be snug.

"I worry, Sherlock, for you."

I look down, the dizziness making my eyes flicker beneath their lids as if I am in REM sleep, and the sickness sweeps across my chest, my stomach, my heart.

" _Don`t_." My teeth are tightly gritted as I force out the word.

"Ah, I do, though. You were with my brother at his end and I feel our bond so strongly - our little family."

"I have no family."

"Ah." He is so close now, I feel the air shift about him, and the smell of apple blossom with acrid overtones of gunpowder residue… and chlorine.

"But we both know that isn't quite true, don't we Sherlock? We are to sort this… problem out, you and I. You took something that was mine and now I want it back, I want it soon, before it is too late."

Head thrumming, buzzing, burning; emitting a heat that is white hot, like an irradiated plasma pulsing through my central cortex. His stick taps once, twice and he is as close as he can be without us touching, and I reel as my head spins to glimpse his shoes, his hand, his face and rapacious ebony eyes.

"You- _are not_ \- Adam North."

"I _can_ be. I can be anyone, Sherlock, even you. When you are gone, I _may_ be you, and that is when I will have burnt the very heart out of you."

My stomach turns and I find I am on all fours, shaking and gasping, like a dog as I hear his parting shot.

"Give her back, Sherlock, before it is too late."

It is only after the door closes behind him that I hear the sirens.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I'm so sorry things appear so strange and nebulous, but Sherlock's world is shifting and changing, and I hope things become clearer (for everyone!) soon!**

 **Emma x**


	4. Diagnosis

**CHAPTER TWO: REALITY ALSO**

 **You cannot save people. You can only love them.**

 **(Anais Nin)**

* * *

 **Part one: Diagnosis**

John Watson is late.

He is late and unsure as to why everything about him (including himself) is now moving with a slow, turgid, almost sluggish motion, when inside he is frantically, silently, screaming with fear and barely suppressed anxiety.

He hates the echoing clip-clop of his measured tread on the hard tiles (don't jog, don't trot, don't _hurry_ for fuck's sake), he hates the _whoosh_ of the heavy doors every time he pushes through into the next corridor (endless corridors), he hates the god-awful stink of disinfected floors and the bright illuminated displays of the snack machines populating every waiting area he passes (how can people eat in a place like this?). His head is down, his posture stiff and he cannot believe how loudly the lift doors _ping_ open and _that fucking couple_ , laughing as they step out of it, into his eyeline. The woman smiles as she glances up, but then hurriedly looks away, taking her flowers and her smile with her.

Slow, so slow.

Moving upwards, he is grateful no-one shares the lift, and its stifling confines allow his racing heart a moment to beat loudly in his ears, signalling the raging turmoil choking up his insides, filling him up.

He grits his teeth as the doors ping open, striding out before they've even had a chance to fully do so. _Out, out, let me out_. Another corridor but the people have changed. Very few civilians, only medical staff wearing more dehumanising and scary looking uniforms; this is where the real stuff happens, this is where things go to shit.

 **~x~**

Mycroft Holmes appears to have an expectation of him: that he will ask questions. He is a doctor, he is unafraid of medical jargon, he is unafraid of Mycroft. He is a man whose need for knowledge usually lends him a focused and directed approach to asking the right questions when and where they need to be asked. John Watson is diplomatic ( _a bit not good, Sherlock_ ) yet straight to the heart of the matter when it's needed. But today he is silent, while the man in the scary white coat and steel-rimmed spectacles does all the talking in that pine-scented, overly heated little office, with a framed picture of a sunset on the wall above his head.

"... _glioblastoma multiforme_ is perhaps the most common type presenting in adults. Slow growing, it is the result of a series of molecular and cellular mutations very typical in this type of brain tumour."

The overhead light reflects onto his glasses, making the doctor look flat-eyed and blind from certain angles. John does not want to see his eyes and he does not want to hear his words, but he must.

"It will most likely have been slowly developing over a series of many months, perhaps even years- "

Mycroft nods, glancing across, in expectation of an interruption, a question, a denial. But there is nothing.

"The CT scan yesterday gave us an accurate picture, followed up this morning by the MRI, which is better to illustrate any swelling or bleeding. Fortunately for Mr Holmes, we saw no bleeding and only a small amount of swelling, but the size of the tumour has now become a serious threat."

"Surgery?" Mycroft's voice is quiet, low, deferential. Unrecognisable. John wants to look across, but finds he can only look at the sunset picture on the wall. His insides churn and lurch and burn.

"Our only real option. It is quite astonishing to us that Mr Holmes has managed to continue in his day to day life as long as he has. Most people would have succumbed months ago."

"My brother, Doctor Trevor, is not _most people_." And John hears the hint of a rueful smile, tinged with a taint of pride in Mycroft's voice, and he knows who is being the strong one here, but still he can say nothing, only see the reds, oranges and purples fading into the sea.

"You mentioned hallucinations? This is common with tumours nudging onto the temporal lobe. Patients see things not there, even take part in scenarios that do not exist."

When they had found him in the empty house, Sherlock had been shaking, burning up, doubled up with nausea, but insistent he had met with a man, a client, a criminal genius who had made huge and serious threats. Both he and Mycroft had then brooked no further argument and driven him straight to Bart's, where now, words were being said that made all the sense, but no sense at all.

" _He`s Sherlock Holmes!"_

Two sets of eyes turn towards him, since it was the first time he had spoken since entering the office, and John feels he must qualify the overwhelming thought now choking up his throat and pulling him inside out.

"He's one of the greatest minds I've ever met. If he loses his reasoning, his intellect, his brain power, then _what is he_? There will be nothing left. If he lives with a lesser mind, then he might as well … not."

They stare and stare at him and time is slow, turgid and sluggish and he moves a trembling hand up towards his face and finds it wet with tears he didn't know he'd shed. John wants to scream, to shout, to kick his way out of the office and run and run, until he is somewhere else, somewhere far away, anywhere but here, in this fucking nightmare.

Instead, he feels a hand on his shoulder, attached to an arm hooked by a rolled up umbrella and he suddenly wants to laugh.

"It`s not going to rain today, Mycroft, the sun is cracking the flags."

"I am always prepared, John." And John Watson allows his eyes to find Mycroft's, since he has no choice but to believe him.

 **~x~**

 **Part Two: Grief**

It is late.

It is so very late that it might even be called early. The glow from the emergency lighting is blue on this floor (green on hers, not that the dead would mind what colour scheme was used; green for the dead, red for the moderately ill and blue for the people who are somewhere in between) and their gentle glow illuminates her cheekbones, her upper lip, her furrowed brow, as she passes them by were she to see herself. Molly Hooper, however, is not vain. She can pass a mirror, a thousand reflective surfaces and not think to pause and check her physical appearance. Work is all consuming, and she knows it takes more than a lick of lipstick or a decolletage of diamante to create a good impression. Who cares anymore, anyway.

Molly holds her clipboard tightly beneath her arm. It contains her shopping list and a menu from the cafe on the corner, but she hopes the lateness of the hour and her air of purpose will dissuade anyone from questioning her presence on the fifth floor and her clumsily surreptitious entry to the private wing. Sanderson should really not leave his jacket lying around. Or make his password so disgustingly guessable ( _`PathLabStud`_ \- she felt dirty just typing it in, but needs must when the devil drives).

The calm stillness of the intensive care here was very different to the stillness of her mortuary. Although all here was still and quiet, there was an air of breathless hope and suppressed adrenalin in synch with the beeps of expensive machinery and thrumming of life support. The morgue was flatlined, dead. Here, there remained a hope, since a heartbeat and a bleeping trace meant life, and that was everything.

It really had to be.

Molly damped down a clamouring panic that had been her constant tormentor for the past forty-eight hours. The stereotactic biopsy had been utterly conclusive, but it had to depend on the individual; each case was different. _This_ individual was perhaps a little more individual than most. Molly`s footfalls slowed as she approached his room. Made of glass, the walls offered little in the way of privacy, but were a barrier all the same, and breaching that final barrier was going to take a little more in the way of courage. Molly placed her bogus clipboard on the swabs trolley opposite and took in a breath as she took in the sight of him.

Through the glass, his huge, imposing presence, the kind that garnered all the attention in the room and enabled even the most lethargic bystander to form an opinion, was gone. Sherlock lay, curled, foetus-like, on his right side, eyes closed, connected to IV, blood transfusion and several other hideous tubes she could not bring herself to innumerate. He was a six foot male who could have outrun the majority of the criminals who'd decided they could best him, then wrestled them to the ground and beat a confession out of them with a riding crop. Dead or alive, they would have given him answers, but now, such an idea was a preposterous notion formed by idiots, full of sound and fury.

Unable to bear another agonising moment, Molly twisted the door handle and walked into the glass cube, his fortress of solitude. She had decided that inaction was a thousand times worse than action (whatever that action may be). Assuming he was asleep, she found herself shocked to the core when he turned and opened his eyes.

 _Still beautiful._

 _Thank God._

 _He was still himself._

"Hello, Sherlock," she said, smiling, because, in that moment, her heart was singing, soaring. "I`m _so_ happy to see you."

And there wasn't a single drop of awkwardness remaining anymore.

 **~x~**

Early morning.

A satin blue tinge nestling around the sunrise gave promise of another beautiful day. Birds had begun a chorus to welcome a morning that could never be stopped and would remain constant in its sunrise until the very end of the world. Such certainty is promised to very few, and we must grasp at what we can, hoping that our needs are fulfilled, our heads given fresh hope, and our loves protected.

John sees her outline first, through the frosted glass of Lab number 1. Her hair is down and her coat unbuttoned and he wonders, momentarily, what she is working on in such disarray, but mostly he does not think, he just sees and he moves.

Molly starts up from her bench, where she had been dissecting a large chrysanthemum head, laying out each petal separate to its brethren on the bench before her. The draught from the door sends a shiver through her meticulous arrangement, but they miraculously resettle back into her design without any hint of disarray. She sees John and stands, scraping her stool so hard, an inhuman squeal rents the air of that morning with a shock that resonates, like a slap to the face.

Three metres away, he pauses in his impetus and she takes in his greyness, his emptiness, his grief.

One, two, three steps and they collide, arms wrapped around the other, seeking an answer, but not knowing the question.

And they cry.

 _ **~x~**_


	5. A New Reality

**CHAPTER THREE: ANOTHER REALITY**

 _ **Your worst battle is between what you know and what you feel.**_

 **(Anon)**

* * *

(Sherlock POV)

 **Part 1: Awakenings**

How long have I been sleeping? Twenty minutes? A millennia? Impossible to say, except for the overriding sensation of … _wellness_. Every part of me feels rested, feels whole and as it should be. Some mornings allow you to revel in the luxury of what it means to be alive and I breathe in deeply, allowing myself to _feel_.

I stir in my bed (every fibre, every nuance of that mattress is known to me) and increase my sensory perception by keeping my eyes shut for as long as possible. I enjoy it, John detests it ( _pretentious showboating, Sherlock!_ ) thus, in the absence of my friend, I employ my remaining senses to discern a little more of the world ( _patience, John_ ).

 _Touch_ : sheets with a thread count that would make an Egyptian blush feel smooth and cool beneath my shoulder blades, the backs of my knees, my elbows and palms.

 _Smell_ : the faintest trace of lavender and grapefruit rolls forth as I shift across the double bed. It is both alluring and comforting (fabric softener? Familiar at any rate) and I confess an odd tremor deep within nudges at the edges of my consciousness, stirring an oddly familiar (yet unfamiliar) response. Also, a faint yet pervasive aroma of frying… bacon(?) steals its way to me, reminding, me that I have not felt hungry for _oh-so-long,_ and am instantly, absolutely _ravenous_ (Pavlovian response to food. Disappointing.)

 _Hearing_ : John`s radio (not Radio 4 thank God, he must have seen sense) but emanating nearby (kitchen) and accompanied by… another one… two, no- three voices? Clients? Lestrade? I turn over within the safety of the darkness and my beloved bed and a hint of uncertainty takes hold ( _no; no more of that_ ). A loud, shrill voice cuts through the low murmurings of the others and a female hisses a _ssshhhhh!_ that appears to have very little effect. Tedious. Clients. With added offspring. Charming. It is as well that I feel as well-rested and good humoured as I do, or these people would find their problems ignored and their irritating conundrums unsolved. People are so predictable.

I turn over as I hear the inevitable footsteps approach my door and steel myself for the resultant rap across as John grows tired of waiting for me to rise and play nicely with our latest friends in need.

There is a cold water shock then, that engulfs me when no knock occurs and the door is wrenched open by a slightly tetchy and dishevelled version of Molly Hooper, juggling a dark-haired, wild-eyed baby on her hip and an expression of exasperation across her (rather beautiful) mouth.

"Sherlock, I have given you the gift of a thirty minute lie-in, and it is only now that I am begging you for reinforcements. They are ganging up on me… Viola can smell fear, I swear it!"

I am more than aware that my mouth is open in shock as the belligerent infant she struggles to grasp issues forth a (now familiar) shriek and offers her small, disproportionate arms in my direction, wriggling and gyrating as if a sudden fall would do her any good whatsoever.

Pulling the sheet across my nakedness, my forebrain can only catalogue so much nonsensical information before overload becomes inevitable, occurring precisely 0.003 seconds subsequent to the child squealing another offering towards me.

" _Daddy!_ " she cries.

 **~x~**

"Sherlock…" the static on the line belies the myth that being `high up` aids the signal, but I hear enough familiarity in John Watson's voice to marginally calm my racing heart; the one fixed point in a world that makes very little sense at present.

"Sherlock, you have to come back down and talk."

"No, there is something seriously wrong. There is clearly a plot to drive me insane, to kill me."

The static crackles badly, but I do discern the words ` _drama`_ and ` _queen`_ muttered across the line.

"... kill you."

"I have no idea what you just said." A sharp breeze rattles Mrs Hudson's aerial and lifts the hastily wrapped sheet from across my shoulders, reminding me that height also reduces air temperature, and therefore body temperature, thereby limiting one's cerebral processes. Some clear thinking would indeed go some way towards rationalising the current situation into some semblance of sanity.

"... said, no-one is trying to _kill you_ , although I am quite willing to give it a shot if you don't get down from the roof."

"There are _children_ in our house, John."

"Yes. Come down and I will try to explain. Something happened… last night."

 **~x~**

I sit in Mrs Hudson's kitchen ( _I cannot/will not go upstairs_ ), wrapped in her best candlewick bedspread, drinking her appalling decaffeinated tea ( _`best thing for you right now, dear`_ ) whilst John performs what I suspect is the most challenging medical consultation of his life.

"We were chasing Lionel Telford down by the Embankment, near Traitor's Gate."

I am silent, since this is new information and my head is beginning to ache.

"So… you don't remember… ok, well… then you got ahead of me a little bit and the next corner I turn, you`re lying across the path, next to the plank of wood he'd cracked across your skull."

I lift my hand and, sure enough, there is a swelling above my left eye which evokes a wince as I touch it. The throb of my head is more pronounced as Mrs Hudson silently empties two tablets across the table in front of me. I lift my eyes upwards; her fridge appears to be covered with childish drawings. I shudder, involuntarily.

"You were out for, maybe a minute. Said you were fine but seemed really exhausted when I brought you back. I would have stayed, but Molly said she'd keep an eye on you…"

My stomach lurches. Molly? _She lives here?_

John is clearly discomforted at what must appear as horror burgeoning across my face and he exchanges glances with our landlady whilst -

"You _would have stayed_? John, why would you _not_ have stayed?"

And it is only then that I realise the glint of the ring on his left hand.

And immediately afterwards, the one on my own.

 **~x~**


	6. Adjustments

The boy is seven, perhaps eight years old, yet there is a solemn semblance about his manner that gives him the air of a person much older. He has three missing teeth (including one molar, one incisor), a slight indent to his left index finger, indicating he is left-handed, has been attempting homework, and has recently undergone a sudden growth spurt, indicated by the length of trouser on an otherwise well turned out child. His cheeks are high, both in design and colour, as I realise this encounter must be as excruciating for him as it is for me. I then decide there is room for only one child in the room and say:

"That boy at school will leave you alone once you mention his father has been arrested."

His downcast eyes suddenly shoot up to meet mine, blue sparks of understanding glittering sharply in a single glance, and it nearly takes my breath away.

"I couldn't possibly."

"You probably could."

"I _wouldn't_."

I recalibrate.

"You _probably_ shouldn't."

He waits a moment, peering from beneath unruly dark curls (which he clearly hates having cut), then, miraculously, smiles a shy smile before dropping that icelandic gaze and fiddling with a pot of rosin on the mantel ( a common habit, since his fingers and cuffs affect quite the familiar patina). Awkward silences mean little to me, so I let him reflect and build up courage, before he says:

"It's ok. You're still _you_ , I can see."

"Benedict," I take in a sharp huff of breath as a vivid, terrifying, beautiful memory suddenly surges like a wave, across my cortex and my eyes simultaneously widen and prickle with unforeseen tears as I whisper:

"I remember the day you were born."

And I do.

 **~x~**

Lestrade has a case. He's obviously tip-toeing around my amnesia in his charmingly clumsy way, but appears to have retained a touching trust in my abilities.

"So the gardener's dog was to blame? A dog? Seriously?"

How I adore the unadorned innocence of his questioning. The man has absolutely no ego and I am shocked that I had never noticed before.

"The photographs you emailed showed how the ladder lay across the apex of the roof before it fell. The dog had been a terrier used for rabbiting- it's habit was to squeeze into small gaps and apertures whenever possible. The prints were obscured by new gravel, but they were they, and they were paw prints."

Lestrade shook his head.

"Killed by his own faithful pet. We`d better release the wife."

I sit back, steepling my fingers, surveying the pictures on my mantelpiece which offer up a fresh burst of surprise each time I glanced at them, as if I were a visitor in a distant relative's front room. Both John and my brother`s ` _top man in his field_ ' were relentlessly (and exhaustingly) optimistic regarding my memory `gaps`, and it was true to note that sudden bursts of recognition were burgeoning forth, as if a droplet was becoming a trickle, and a trickle becoming a stream.

"Got another one for you; bit of a gothic horror type of thing. Thought it'd be right up your alley. Bunch of stuffed animals nicked from a taxidermy warehouse in Bromley. Worth over a hundred grand. No-one knows why, or who'd want that many-" he consults his notebook "- ibis, penguins (thirty), giraffe, lions (several), a giant sloth and a chimp in a top hat." He looks at me, smiling. "Very _Hammer House of Horror._ "

But I knew already.

" _The Lifeless Menagerie_. John has already written up the case. It was a gang working to supply Russian oligarchs who wanted a private zoo with none of the inconvenience of caring for living animals."

He stares at me for a moment, putting down his pen.

"Sherlock, it only happened last night."

Isn't deja vu just a trick of the mind, after all? Are memories always on a straight trajectory? Could synapses cross over one another (much in the way that time/space wormholes work) and memories crossover to be in new and unfamiliar places, yet the memory itself remain intact? I was less than cogent regarding my new state of mind, but I felt it would be prudent to sharpen my wits on as many cases as possible to hone my instrument as best I could. Glancing to the mantelpiece once more, I felt a recent droplet becoming more of a stream, as a thought as certain as a new dawn swam to the surface.

"Then you have two for the price of one, Lestrade, since it would be most unusual for two taxidermy robberies to have taken place so recently. Shorofsky is a name you might find useful."

He scribbles.

"In return, there may be a question or two you might be able to shed some light upon?"

"Fire away (still scribbling), I'm listening Sherlock."

"Firstly, in your dealings with London's most eligible criminals, have you ever come across the name Birdy Edwards? I have received several messages on my Blog asking for help."

Lestrade does not stop writing, but shakes his head. I find my eyes wandering once more to the indentations on the third finger of his left hand.

"Not a clue, but I can run it past Sally. She's a one for unusual names." He turns a page and resumes his essay of note-taking.

"Secondly, Lestrade I was wondering if you could tell me a little more in regard to my Swedish half sister and your relationship towards her?"

At that, the scribbling ceases, and I find he really _is_ listening after all.

 **~x~**

I later pass Molly Hooper on the stair, and there is a slightly awkward moment, as we wait for the other to pass, not reading body language at all well, and almost colliding several times as we move to let each other by. Since my accident and subsequent memory loss, she has been appallingly cheerful, strong, almost jolly in her tolerance of me. There is so much I am learning to accept about a life I have partially forgotten, but the idea that I would have married anyone, let alone sweet, gauche, awkward Molly from Bart's, is the most difficult for me to accept. It is irrefutable that both Benedict and Viola are my children, and although I recall snippets of our wedding and working with her in the laboratory, the full picture is still so blurry. Until I connect these amorphous dots, I can attempt to be a facsimile of what she may expect me to be, but I feel continuously lacking, and therefore hideously awkward.

I smile a lop-sided, over-cheery grin (poorly done) and squeeze her arm awkwardly as I pull my scarf and coat from their hooks. She smiles bravely back, but I note the pain in her eyes and feel a fresh wash of shame.

"You're off to meet with Seiga? Greg told me. I'm so glad things are coming back, Sherlock."

"Yes. I do now recall my mother has been less than candid with me regarding a visit to Uppsala in the 1980s." It was odd to re-learn factual evidence of one's parent's infidelity. I tried (and failed) to imagine what Christmas would be like this year.

"Seiga, she's nice. She's smart, like you."

Deep brown eyes, a glow from within their depths like warm amber, and I suddenly know I do not want it to fade, but to burn brightly. She is watching my reactions, but I am watching her mouth ( _a perfect curve; a Pre-Raphaelite bow)_ and the retrousse tilt to her nose, the perfect dimple in each freckled cheek. One rebellious wisp of auburn hair floats about her neck as the dust motes populate the darkening hallway. Her lilac tee shirt, smudged with charcoal (apparently, my daughter is quite the artist) skims her clavicle and clings around the swell of her breast. The crease above her eyes and cast beneath tell of her tiredness, her strength in the face of what must be an appalling assault upon her own reality.

"Or like you," I murmur, watching her head turn to notice a large plush bee toy wedged beneath the hall table, and her hand reach out to retrieve it.

"Viola`s favourite toy," I note, earning a sharp glance from those brown eyes.

"Yes." She clutches the bee. "Don't be late," she adds as evening falls.

 **~x~**

 **Part Two: Enlightenings**

Seiga Hargebera sits, cross-legged, pixie-like, in the centre of Mycroft's soft Turkish rug, surrounded by dozens of crime-scene photographs; some of shooting victims, some of weapons (air rifles), some of blood spatter and a number of close-up ballistic shots. A thin yellow ribbon is tied in her hair, giving her a childish air of innocence which I can now fully recall, is nothing further from the truth.

"Good evening, Mrs Lestrade. The bullet on that picture by your left foot has been fired from a very long range, but apparently by a revolver - most odd."

She looks up immediately, smiling my son's smile (presumably then, also my own) and leaps to her feet, scattering numerous photographs, to embrace me.

"Hej! min älskling bror," she laughs, pulling me down onto the floor to sit amongst the photographs. "I see you are recalling more each day. How convenient for us all not to have to explain it to you all over again. You did not enjoy the revelation of Gregory and I being together the first time around, let me be candid!"

I give a brittle smile, grateful for the absence of Mycroft and the distraction of a case, set out before me.

"Memories are precious," I comment, skimming through picture after picture, "but an occasional bump on the head can sometimes be a blessing."

She pokes me adeptly between my third and fourth rib, eliciting both flinch and scowl, coupled with mounting regret, until-

I stop shuffling through the pictures and pull a lens from my jacket pocket. Seiga leans over my shoulder as I look, _really look_. A body lies across a cobbled street, arms outstretched, eyes wide-open in shock and fear. The man's belongings are strewn about him, caused no doubt by the assault of the bullet hitting his chest and his subsequent fall to the ground. Money, keys, papers, credit cards, phone (smashed screen) and a blue envelope, with a name and address written clearly in looped, cursive (written by a man disguising his handwriting to resemble a woman's). I smile.

"You see something, Sherlock?" Mycroft has appeared to my left ( _puff of smoke? Hidden trapdoor?_ ), making us one big, happy, deducing family. Charming.

"The universe is never lazy, brother of mine," I say as I look upon the name ` _Birdy Edwards_ ` scrawled across a dead man's correspondence.

 **~x~**


	7. Wormhole

I am dreaming.

Lying next to Molly Hooper in what is now a _marital_ _bed_ has made sleep difficult over the past few weeks, but tonight I am exhausted. Seiga and I trawled the East End dockyards until four in the morning in the hope of finding a connection to the man in the photograph, drawing nothing for our efforts but the stench of the early morning river and a bone-deep weariness. I sleep the moment my body falls into the bed next to a wife I cannot quite recall, and _I dream and dream._

* * *

 _A pale blue light suffuses the room, the ceiling above my head, and a regular, hypnotic beeping punctuates the stillness of the night. I am not outdoors however, but encased in a giant, glass cube, surrounded by a million blinking lights (eyes?) in the darkness beyond the room. My limbs are heavy, my head feels muffled, numb, insulated from everything, and a solid, inescapable ache issues from behind my eyes. I close them, listening to the pulsing of the strange, glass rainforest, and awaiting the beasts beyond, anticipating their advance and possible attack._

 _Minutes (hours?) later, a soft click and a displacement of air causes the hair across my forehead to shift and settle as an intruder breaches my glass citadel. As my heart races, my body struggles to respond and the beeping increases, as if the creatures in the forest are issuing a warning._

 _Run! Hide!_

 _"Hello, Sherlock," comes a voice I know; a voice that calms and soothes and heals. "I`m so happy to see you."_

 _Molly Hooper is dressed in white, shimmering above me. She smiles with her beautiful mouth as we watch each other, and I can do nothing but mirror her smile._

 _"I'm not allowed to bring you grapes, but I have some case notes about three very odd deaths you might like me to read to you. One gunshot wound from a bullet we've never encountered before, one fatal crushing by a fallen gargoyle, and one mowing down by a runaway horse… all quite unusual for central London."_

 _Her voice is outwardly cheery, but also so very querulous and unsure, with a face that is blurry yet imbued with a kindness that threatens tears._

 _"Angel," I say._

 _She moves closer and I see her grin as she sits down beside my bed, running her hand across my own (cannula included). Her dark eyes dart between the chart she appears to be holding in her hand and the solution dripping into my veins, suspended, pod-like, above my bed._

 _"Are you high, Sherlock?" she asks, eyes glinting with puckish mischief. The beeps increase as I attempt to discern the tilt of her brow and the curve of her mouth._

 _"Undoubtedly," I murmur, clicking a button which has magical powers, and a flood of serenity and calm seeps through me, reducing the aching to a dull throb._

 _She laughs, huffing in a breath of air with a cautious edge, an apprehension._

 _"No-one is here, Molly Hooper. The creatures wait deep within the forest, since I am not ready yet."_

 _I feel her hand grip mine and wonder what she has seen. They are more than stealthy in the rainforest beyond the glass cube, and I cannot trust their motives._

 _"Sherlock," whispers Dream-Molly, "do not be afraid. It's going to be fine."_

 _"I know."_

 _"Liar. You are scared, and I don't blame you. This is scary."_

 _Really. A few animals. A forest menagerie. Molly is less than heroic. I click the button again and her face swims before mine._

 _"The gargoyle - which church did it fall from?"_

 _"St. Mary and St. Thomas Aquinas, in Belgravia. Direct hit, apparently - his cranium was confetti… sorry - inappropriate."_

 _I smile, turning my head, watching the blue light up her cheekbones, her chin, her brow._

 _"Incandescent," I say._

 _"What is?"_

 _"You."_

 _Molly Hooper brings her face down, level with mine, then inclines her head, so that it inhabits the pillow I lie upon._

 _"You are high, you junkie nutjob," she smiles. I want to reach out and touch her face, but wires, tubes, inhibition stops me._

 _"Mmmm." Our faces are inches apart, and I have no issue with that at all._

 _"What was the name of the horse?"_

 _"What horse?"_

 _"The one who ran down a law-abiding member of society in a vaguely anachronistic murder attempt."_

 _"Or complete accident."_

 _"No."_

 _"Silver Blaze, seeing as you are so interested."_

 _We look at each other and I enjoy the corolla of light that surrounds her face, mingling with the blueness, giving shadow to her mouth and the lines of her jaw. I would so love to touch her… awkward Molly Hooper from Bart's._

 _Within the next moment, a strange buzzing sound issues from the forest. It buzzes and buzzes, and Dream-Molly rises hurriedly from my bedside, retreating swiftly into the darkness of the blue-tinged rainforest as doors around the cube click open and the beeping builds into a solid wall of sound._

 _"Sherlock," she whispers, fading, dissipating, swallowed up by the darkness, "listen to your heart, it is so strong."_

 _And I wake up._

* * *

Panting low breaths, he is lying so very still in the bed beside me. Heat, anxiety, sweat radiates from him and so I remain still also, waiting for whatever nightmares have been haunting his dreams to disappear fast on the early morning air. Birds are stirring, chirruping their happy _summer-is-here_ voices through our open window. I lie near to my husband and may as well lie buried deep, a thousand fathoms down in my failure to breach the chasm that has opened up between us. If he realises I'm awake, he will assume that hateful, wary politeness that attempts to be a substitute for the love and affection we shared until so recently. In truth, I would rather he curled his lip at me and derided my small mouth and inadequate breasts. I would rather he was so wrapped up in a case, he failed to notice me for days on end, or casually recounted some intimate secret to a blushing audience because it proved a theory to be correct. I would much rather he gave our son wildly inappropriate advice in how to deal with bullies, or took our eighteen month old daughter to crime scenes which resembled the butchery slabs down at Smithfield Market; indeed I would prefer, like Medea, to have my enemy rip out and eat my heart right now if I thought that he would swallow my pain, rather than live with this discomforted stranger. You see, some people are known to bring out the worst in a person ( _mentioning you, Sanderson_ ), whilst others are renowned for bringing out the best ( _for me:_ _Mike Stamford, Marie Curie, Taylor Swift_ ). There are some people, however (those remarkably addictive types) who just bring out the _most._ _Of everything_. These are the dangerous ones, since these are the people who make you feel so very alive that you would follow them straight to hell without even asking why they were going there. Sherlock Holmes - my love, my darling boy, _my_ _actual, visceral, beating heart_ \- is one of these people. And I want him back.

Now.

 **~x~**


	8. A Demon in my View

(John's POV)

 **Part 3: Deducings**

Seiga and I watch him, since audience participation is not currently required and I just… want to see him being _normal_ again.

The body is not for the faint-hearted, since the trauma to the head, neck and shoulders from a falling stone carving is not to be underestimated, but Sherlock is undeterred, animated, focused. His lens whips across the mortuary slab in almost a blur of movement, then moving on to the poor creature's belongings, brought out by a quietly subdued Molly, on a metal tray. Long fingers delve through a rather paltry collection of credit, library and supermarket loyalty cards, engendering a furrowed brow and slowing of pace.

"Problem?" His sister moves forward to assist, but is halted by a glance.

" _Adam North_?" Sherlock holds the card in front of his own eyes as if questioning what he sees.

"Do you know him? A marker? A criminal?"

Sherlock shakes his head _(a dream, a foretelling, some harbinger had brought him here, but he did not/could not believe in portends)_ , as if trying to re-boot the facts that lie within and continues with his probing.

"No, John. It just…" he stops again, for a moment. "A familiarity is all. Nothing. Molly, would you please be so good as to bring out the other body, from the horse accident?"

"No problem."

"Thank you so much."

Seiga and I know better than to exchange glances, but I feel the atoms fizz and change about those two, and feel my heart sink a little. This was a bit not good.

Sherlock is holding something up towards the light; a matchbook. I decide I`ve done enough spectating and walk across, taking it from him and turning it over in my hands. Red and black; four matches missing, the silhouette of a magpie adorning the front. No writing whatsoever.

"Dunno, Sherlock. I don't recognise this. A nightclub? Cafe? Bar?"

He takes it back, looking, turning it through his fingers, thinking.

"If it's tangible evidence you want," I add, "may I suggest the mangled corpse on the slab behind us? An (almost) whole body of evidence right there."

But he shakes his head as a secondary black zippered bag is wheeled in by an orderly (Molly is preparing slides, back turned towards us) and takes the box of effects from the shelf beneath it.

"The body tells us nothing more than a cause of death, an obviously unlawful one at that. St Mary & St. Thomas Aquinas was renovated and restored via a hefty donation from an anonymous source wishing to buy himself a place in heaven less than eighteen months ago. I read the building company's plans and viewed their photographs of the work; the fatal gargoyle was removed at the time since it was deemed unsafe. It was never put back - until the day it fell upon Mr North."

"Someone hauled a ton of sandstone up sixty-five stairs to drop it on a man beneath? This is dedication!" remarks Seiga. "This is a planned execution!"

"This is revenge," returns Sherlock Holmes, pulling a small key fob from the personal effects of the second body, most recently felled beneath the hooves of a runaway horse in Richmond Park.

It is decorated starkly with a black silhouetted magpie atop a red background.

 **~x~**

Sherlock hates chess.

Since being bested and belittled by his older brother at the tender age of seven, he had refused to lift another piece, as if the world of chess should be punished- denied the labours of his elegant strategies from that moment on. Unfortunately, such a determined grudge had to be abandoned, since with paternity comes responsibility for the happiness of others, and Sherlock Holmes had a son who adored the game. Thus, it came about that the very next day, to please his introspective and unique boy, and to ease the restlessness that haunted his current mood, he took Benedict to Ashworth & Co. in Bond Street, where the most beautiful sets were bought, sold, displayed and admired, and a small museum existed at the rear of the shop for those lucky enough to have an uncle who _was_ the British Government.

Ben was delightfully animated, considered Sherlock, which was well-worth the horror of dozens of musty old sets of various designs, and several ancient gentlemen (many of them no strangers to the Diogenes Club) slowly gathering dust in the murky corners of the large room. One of the few shops along the street to have retained its gas mantles, the place had the dim glow of a Victorian parlour on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

"Daddy, this is quite… magical. I can touch these?"

Sherlock nodded, seeing himself, seeing Molly, as their son reverently touched pieces, shifting them back and forth in phantom moves, lifting gold-leaf trimmed books on strategies from mahogany shelves and watching the ancient ones occasionally move a Knight, from a respectful distance.

 _Molly_. The dream had been so vivid, so real, he had thought of it for days. Her hands when she had touched him as he lay in that hospital bed - he watched them pick up cups from the coffee table, brush Viola`s hair, prepare a slide for the microscope - all the time, wondering what it would be like to be touched by them again. He lay each night beside her, the gap between them a wide, Sargasso sea, and thought of her face, looking at his across the pillow of his dream and smiling... _"listen to your heart, it is so strong."_

"...Daddy, I said it was to commemorate 175 years, that`s one and three quarter centuries."

Ben stands next to where a shelf of saleable sets are arranged, ranging hugely in price, size and intricacy of design. He is pointing to a box bearing the legend: _`Celebrating 175 Years of the London Arts & Philosophy Society. Commemorative Chess Set. Play in the style of the Masters', _and sporting the Society's emblem as proudly as heraldic colours beneath-

The black silhouette of a magpie on a red background.

"Do you like this one, Daddy? I've heard the Arts & Philosophy Society have some excellent players."

"I suspect you may be more than correct," agrees his father, smiling.

 **~x~**

As used as they are to facing each other over a desk and drinking bitter, black coffee at odd hours, Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade are finding the new and unusual location of Greg's kitchen at 3am as being a little… _trying._

"I can't just barge into a well-respected establishment in the middle of the night, demanding to check out their membership because you've had a dream about a raven, Sherlock."

" _Magpie_."

Seiga coughs a little into her cup as she swings her pyjama`d legs from the counter top. Sherlock is 97% certain she is disguising a snigger.

"Lestrade, I am not requiring access to their membership. I have already investigated their poorly protected database and am more than familiar with their public list of members. It is the element of surprise I require, since I believe their so called respectability to be a well-established veneer for what lies beneath."

"Since when?" Seiga has put down her cup and is gleefully watching her husband and her brother irritate each other.

"Approximately one and three quarter centuries ago, as my son reliably informs me."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Organised crime in Victorian England? There is nothing new under the sun is there?"

Sherlock bristles with adrenalin and closes his eyes in an attempt to cordon his impatience and temper his recklessness. Adam North, prior to his crushing by stone dragon, was found to have an increasingly appalling litany of cruel and disgraceful misdoings to his name. His most recent foray into crime had involved numerous blackmail attempts towards two priests and a deacon at St Mary's. Mr Sebastian Moran, killed by a spooked horse in a park, had also been proven to be a man of nefarious deeds, masterminding several racing scams involving fake markings on fake race horses.

"Only this morning," Sherlock resumes, eyes still closed, "I discovered from a very grateful dock worker down at Shepherdson Wharf that Mr Birdy Edwards had been more than instrumental in engineering the murder of a Herr Von Herder in Oslo last month."

"The inventor?" Seiga is watching him carefully. She can tell he has a headache by the crease between his eyes. He has had many headaches lately.

"Yes. It was found, after his death, that he had patented a completely collapsible design of air gun, which would fire revolver bullets, but could also be smuggled through customs due it it being made completely of plastic."

"A jealous competitor?"

"More of a jealous customer." Sherlock flashes open his eyes. His head is buzzing; pulsing with a burgeoning throb. "Someone made Von Herder a better offer and this customer didn't like it."

"Birdy Edwards was the customer, then?" After a twelve hour shift, Lestrade is knackered and increasingly wondering why he isn't lying in bed with his beautiful wife instead of arguing with her brother and drinking cold coffee in his own kitchen.

"No." Sherlock's eyes take on a contemplative caste as he explores, relives and revels in his discoveries.

"No, this man was merely a blunt instrument, a conduit who became disloyal and seemingly required disposing of. There is a malevolent force, a scarlet thread of murder and evil running through these happenings, Lestrade, and I firmly believe that the _London Arts & Philosophy Society_ is the facade of respectability that this criminal mastermind hides behind."

"Now this sounds a little familiar." Seiga jumps down from the counter, placing a comforting arm around her beleaguered spouse. "How can you know all this?"

Sherlock smiles, briefly.

"A little bird told me," he says.

 **~x~**

Early birdsong serenades me home as I slowly pick my way through empty London streets, washed clean by a sudden shower of rain which served to soak me right through as I left the Lestrade's. Begrudgingly, I admit that perhaps right now, accompanied by the clumping footfalls of the Yard's finest, this night would not be the best time to insinuate my way inside this building. No, I would bide my time, since the name that has been rolling around, nudging at my consciousness for what seems like forever has now broken free from its moorings and is leading me, luring me, bringing me towards a culmination that is as certain as it is inevitable.

Bartholomew Moriarty… time for the final checkmate.

Learned Professor, brother of an insane consulting criminal, seducer of a vulnerable mother, father of a secret sister and central to all that is tainted, spoilt and rotten in this great city. Since _the Case of the_ _Devil's Flower,_ so many years ago, since his brother's death and my sister's discovery he has been the shadow on the stairs, the wind at my back, the eyes that follow me around a room; soaking his influence, like arsenic through litmus paper, poisoning everything.

" _You- are not- Adam North."_

" _I can be. I can be anyone, Sherlock, even you. When you are gone, I may be you, and that is when I will have burnt the very heart out of you."_

I stop, just at the corner of Northumberland Street, a surging, wave of pure fear washing over me, causing my vision to swim and my limbs to falter, weak as water. Moriarty's brother will know I am coming for him, and he knows Mycroft and I will never let him take Seiga, therefore it is more than possible that he shall head me off at the pass and do as he promised, in some long-forgotten dream that is just settling into my fore-brain:

He will take my children.

He will take Molly.

He will take me.

 _ **~x~**_

* * *

 ** _A/N:_**

 ** _Thank you Guest for your kindly words of encouragement - they are much appreciated._**

 ** _Professor Bartholomew Moriarty (brother of James) was first introduced in my story "The Case of The Devil's Flower' and subsequently in 'When Sherlock Met the Other One'._**


	9. Awakenings

**Part 4: Reunion (Molly)**

I`m awake before his key has the chance to even turn in the lock. I twist across our huge, empty, cold bed, pulling the clock towards my face- bleary, exhausted, but relieved beyond words. He's safe. My heart attempts to settle it's treacherous rhythm into a more sensible pattern as I turn over, pulling covers up over my tee-shirt to shut out the early morning coolness and preparing to feign sleep. _He's safe._ I have never been able to sleep properly when he's out there in the shadows of the night. Ridiculous, I realise, since I know ( _inside out_ ) the data, the statistics of crimes and misdemeanours, and their lack of respect for the hour. Bad things can happen at any time, I know this, yet I can't shake the childhood certainty that bad things dwell in dark places, and just because you can't see the creature under the bed doesn't mean he isn't there.

Eyes tight shut and shoulders hunched over, I hear the thump of his feet up the stairs ( _fifteen, sixteen, seventeen_ ) then turning into the children's rooms as he always does; first Viola ( _door clicks, floorboard next to the lightswitch creaks so slightly_ ), then Benedict ( _door catches slightly on his rug with a soft 'whump'_ ). Since his accident, Sherlock has taken to pausing slightly before he enters our room, stealing himself to lie down with me, and each time it chips away a little more … hope.

However, not _this_ time _._

The door flings open, bumping across the wall, causing the nightstand to shake and rattle, the lamp to wobble. He is breathing hard, bringing cool air in with him, and I hear him shed his coat, his scarf ( _the pegs downstairs…?_ ), his jacket and shoes, all hitting the floor in a clumping, sudden conglomeration as they fall from him.

"Molly…"

His voice is calm, quiet, but I hear the tremor and the catch of breath because I know _him_ , and I turn, sitting up straight to find his pale face and glittering eyes in the pale blue light of the encroaching dawn. His hair is damp, wet from the rain, his shirt clings, sticks to his torso, and he fumbles uselessly at the buttons, kneeling on the bed now, pale eyes fixed to my own.

"Help me," he whispers, and (springing into life) I _do_ , popping each one open, pulling it from his shoulders since his hands are shaking and he is freezing, shivering - blue, like the dawn.

"Sherlock, where have you been? You are so very cold."

I am not thinking about anything now but how to warm him, to bring him back. I pull him onto our bed, unzipping, unbuttoning, pulling away wet clothing until it all lies across the floor in darkened pools whilst I pull the duvet, the blankets across him, across me, as I seek out his cold, trembling body and wrap him in the heat of myself. In the next moment, I have ripped off my greying tee-shirt, my faded pyjama bottoms, throwing them wildly away from us both, and I hold him, wrapping my legs around his, my arms tightening so much around his shaking shoulders that I worry for his breathing. Also, I worry (momentarily) that he will push me away, but he doesn't.

"Molly," he says again, voice wretched and imbued with pain, "I was so lost, I am so very sorry."

"Hush, it doesn't matter. None of it matters." I pull his head into my neck, my shoulders and feel the shaking lessen, _oh-so-slightly_.

"I could not _see_ you; I did not _know_ \- "

" _Shhh_."

"Molly, I must see to it that I do not lose you."

He struggles from my kraken-like grip, beautiful hands taking my head between them and pulling my face towards his, and kissing, kissing, _kissing_ me, as the sky turns from blue to pink to golden, as dawn breaks through.

 **~x~**

 **Part Four: Reunion (Sherlock)**

It is difficult to make progress, as my legs are leaden, weak and tremble ridiculously, stumbling up the stairs. Only indoors do I realise how chilled I have become, unsure as to whether it is recent rain showers or realisations that see my hand shake as it grips the bannister. No time to remove coat, scarf, shoes. Heart hammering idiotically as I push into the darkened rooms of _my children_ (still, a concept that occasionally shocks and winds me, like a blow to the solar plexus) and reassure (heart calming), _reassure_. They are safe. For now, they are curled (like ammonite) in sleep and clothed in trust and innocence, and I can think of no more essential task than the one I shall undertake. I can think of no greater reason for a lifelong study of logical thought processes and an acquirement of deductive `talents' than this - to find and destroy, to make safe a tainted world for the innocents that are to come.

Despite minor physical effort, I am breathing hard and cannot stop the rattle of the door handle. She is immediately alert, brown eyes searching for my own: relief, concern, uncertainty.

"Molly," I murmur, taking in her weight loss, her dowdy garb ( _hopelessness_ ), her dark circles and bitten cuticles. Pale fingers of light poke through hastily drawn curtains, as I note piles of paperwork across her desk (Molly has students now, as if her workload was not sufficiently prodigious), including case notes she is making for several of my cases. _For me._

And I suddenly realise I cannot bear it.

I shed my outer clothes, my shoes; I struggle with my shirt, but I need to undress, quickly.

"Help me."

She can, she does, _she always will_.

"Sherlock, where have you been? You are so very cold."

No rebuke, only a desire to make everything better. _For me._

And soon, it _is_ better. Her skin, burning hot against the chill of my chest, my belly, my groin. Her legs, wrapping around, drawing me, suffusing her heat into me, _(Circe, enchantress)_. My eyes are closed and I am drowning, pulled down fathoms deep, and I find I want nothing more than this.

"Molly, I was so lost _._ I am so very sorry."

She is magma, glowing, molten amber, enshrouding, protecting, and I know then the way protection works, and how I am suddenly better, stronger, invincible, because I am standing with an army.

"Hush," she says, " it doesn't matter. None of it matters."

Her hands across my back, mine in her hair ( _honeysuckle_ ), all the time warming, calming, giving, and (almost from nowhere) desire, need, _want_ engulfs me.

"I could not _see_ you; I did not _know_ \- " words tumble, useless and shamefully inarticulate, but I cannot garner my thoughts, only be buffeted by an ungovernable _craving_.

"Sssh." Hands tangle in my hair, tugging slightly and I almost gasp.

"Molly," I pull my hands free, my core pulsing, crackling with electricity, " I must see to it that I do not lose you." I hold her face, watching her beautiful mouth part slightly.

Then I kiss her and it is exquisite, and I find that I cannot stop.

 _We are safe._

 **~x~**

* * *

 **a/n: Guest: thank you so much for your encouragement - I certainly shall! :)**


	10. Butterfly

**CHAPTER FOUR: SUSPENDED REALITY**

 **I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?**

 **(Zhuangzi)**

* * *

 _Wrapped deep within a REM cycle and the slender arms of his wife, Sherlock is dreaming with a brilliant clarity that imbues details of all the senses across his reticular activating system, whose circuits run from the brainstem through the thalamus to the cortex. His limbic system in the midbrain includes the amygdala and is currently working hard to deal with the range of emotions he is unconsciously experiencing. The amygdala is particularly associated with fear, and sleeping Sherlock's heart rate is slightly raised, as is his temperature at this moment. Sherlock's cortex is responsible for the content of his dreams, including the monsters he flees from, the people he meets as he sleeps, and the occasional experience of flying. Since he is a particularly visual animal, the visual cortex (right at the back of the brain) is especially active at this moment. Least active are some parts of the frontal lobes, and this may explain why he is so uncritical during this dream, accepting the crazy events as though they are real – until the moment of waking. But Sherlock is not waking yet - he still has miles to go…_

* * *

(Sherlock POV)

 _I am unable to open my eyes, but I am conscious of so many things without them. A low thrum of nearby machinery (small fan to cool its workings which hitches every other cycle- irritating) indispersed by an insistent beep which is not always constant in its rhythm, sometimes choosing to speed and slow without apparent reason. My awareness cannot be relied upon at present, but swims in and out, catching hurried footsteps echoing across a hard floor, a creaking handle turning close by, and the murmuring of what must be an accumulation of voices, people, words? For the most part, they are indistinguishable, but I occasionally am able to discern a whole word, or even a phrase when awareness is strongest._

 _"Twenty-eight hours in surgery…"_

 _"... strength…"_

 _"Good vital signs…"_

 _"...no signs... induced coma…"_

 _"...damage… afraid…"_

 _"He can probably hear you."_

 _The last voice climbs above the muddled conglomeration of its fellows and inside my head I smile, since I admire its indignant perspicacity, as all the other voices drift away._

 _"He's probably...deducing you all, right now. If I were you, I'd probably just… shush."_

 _Molly Hooper. No longer the awkward lack of eye contact or confrontation, but a firm, strongly held belief and strength of character in her tone (although the slight hitch in her voice does actually give her anxiety away - to me, at any rate)._

 _"Shit, Molly, (John Watson, he always has my back) it's true, I`ve read it in journals… (a pause)... as if Sherlock isn't going to listen in."_

 _~x~_

 _Moments (minutes? hours?) later, a sharp, unusual click-click-click brings me back to the surface, where the glowing phosphorescent burn from above threatens to bring my sight back to me through my eyelids, but I do not recall how to open them…_

 _"...carefully optimistic...earliest opportunity…" such supported nouns must surely be attributed to my brother (as is the umbrella) and judging by the acrid pungency of the air (even the bleach has been overpowered), Lestrade and his cologne are vacillating around me (Friday evening, shortly after his shift ends and Wetherspoons begins happy hour?)._

 _~x~_

 _I know little of day and night, but for the scent of Nurse Irene as she is afresh with Rive Gauche (morning) and swathed in Dettol and muted vomit (evening) when taking my vital signs and changing the bedding._

 _~x~_

 _"- those gentlemen!" Mary Morstan always cheered me, thus her voice has roused me from this deathly glade._

 _"Gentlemen's clubs should be parcelled up and shipped to the British Museum, archived, and entitled, `What were we thinking?'"_

 _"Time… place…"_

 _Truth be told, my dear brother is more than bound to have a vested interest._

 _Murmuring (John, I suspect) and then:_

 _"... New Brunswick Street… the Arts and Phil… some chess club for fogeys with a predilection for avoidance, and enough money to indulge it... Disappeared, apparently with absolutely no clue for the police…"_

 _Shocking._

 _~x~_

 _My lips, mouth, tongue are alive moments before my consciousness catches up. Blisteringly cold, thawed instantaneously into cooling meltwater across my lips, my mouth, my tongue… and as soon as it is gone, another onslaught of ice._

 _"Saline is fine," whispers Molly Hooper, appalling and delighting me simultaneously, "but ice is so nice."_

 _I laugh inside myself, and truly wish that she could see me._

 _~x~_

 _Nurse Irene appears concerned. The beeping is building harshly in my ears and crinkling, harsh blankets cover me as I shake, convulse as if I am possessed by a demonic force (one of Mycroft's favourite theories from early childhood). Cold. Thrumming, pounding in my ears as my body shudders without my permission, staccato; agitato, shaking, shaking as layers surround me and heat gradually leaches through._

 _"Hush, (estinto) Sherlock, hush," familiar hands are touching me, soothing me, warming my core. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters."_

 _And the juddering slows gradually into a tolerable shiver as I hear my heart (for the first time) in my ears, telling me I am still alive, as Molly's warm, soft, healing hands brush away the hair from my face and the anxiety from a body that cannot be relied upon._

 _Teneramente. Tranquillo. Calando._

 _~x~_

 _"Knight to Queen's Bishop, Dr. Hooper. I suspect you may need a moment to garner your thoughts._

 _"Hmmm. I have a suspicion about your Rook."_

 _"As well you might."_

 _I am incandescent with rage (as much a person in a coma might be) as they play their pernicious game at my bedside whilst my interference is redundant. The scrape of ivory across wood and stilted, aching silences enrages my reclusive and redundant brain, as I must hear, sense, know their ineptitude, but be unable to show my hand. I wish to wake, sit up and dash their chessboard to the ground (Molly Hooper from Bart's? Who would have guessed at such an interest?) to find my peace…_

 _But._

 _Drug induced unconsciousness is clearly slowing my deductive processes. I am practically turgid in my deductions from this latitude._

 _They are so very clever._

 _Brava._

 _ **~x~**_

* * *

I'm shocked awake, ripping covers from myself, throwing open the window to get air, allowing the morning breeze to cool my sweat-soaked body and lift the matted hair from my forehead. I lean out into London and breathe it in, letting it cleanse and purge the nightmare of being a helpless prisoner within my own self.

Molly is at my side, wrapped in a blanket, clutching it at her neck as the breeze wraps about her.

"Too many bad dreams, Sherlock," she reaches up, touching my face, my brow, my cheekbones, my lips ( _you also touch me in my dreams…)_. "You need to go and find him, end it. This is killing you."

And I pull her close in, covering my nakedness, looking across her at the big, bad cityscape beyond.

 _Here be monsters_.

"I know," I say.

* * *

 **estinto - as softly as possible**

 **tranquilo - calm**

 **teneramente - tenderly**

 **agitato - agitated**

 **calando - softer, dying away**

 **a/n:**

 **Guests: I am so thrilled that I can offer any insight into Sherlock's psyche/imagination in an authentic way - thank you!**

 _ **~x~**_


	11. One for sorrow

**CHAPTER FIVE: FACING REALITY**

 _ **Things are seldom what they seem,**_

 _ **Skim milk masquerades as cream;**_

 _ **Highlows pass as patent leathers;**_

 _ **Jackdaws strut in peacock's feathers.**_

 **(Gilbert & Sullivan, HMS Pinafore)**

* * *

 **Part Four: Solutions**

So very elementary.

The disturbance of dust where no disturbance should be, the oddly placed rug on the top landing, the floorboards that do not match- the list goes on. Suffice to say, if an object looks out of place, it usually is, and a first instinct is often a very valuable asset (ignore it at your peril). John Watson, army signalling techniques clearly still embedded, gestures across that the coast is clear. His new practise, excellent wife and second baby have succeeded in sequestering his undivided attention in recent times, yet the words _'there may be danger_ ' have once again, invalidated all previous distractions, so here he is (and I am more than delighted).

Low, silent and insidious, we slide like wraiths between the ancient doorways and through the paved, endless corridors of the Arts & Philosophy Society on New Brunswick Street. Most recently, I have found a weakness in the Professor's dealings and must grasp this opportunity, even though it lies within the eye of the storm (or the lion's den) itself. John looks across, his eyebrows raised in silent questioning, but I cannot answer directly, since I am counting.

 _One… two… three_...

The paces from the third floor landing must tally with my exhaustive research using the detailed blueprints Seiga managed to find of this building (the real blueprints that is, rather than the ones filed for public consumption). By way of disguise and general surreptitious dealings, I have paced out the building from each angle and direction, all concluding in a single assertion - _there are too many windows._

Much in the manner of Glamis Castle - where once all the houseguests ran around, displaying a towel from each window in the castle and finding there was still one window without one - I know there is a secret room, and I think I know which particular guest might be housed there.

 _Four… five… six…_

I turn to John, nodding through the cloying darkness of this dusty, gothic monstrosity, then gesturing to a small, murky doorway to my left. He mimes a key turn, but I shake my head, since noise equates to warning, and there can be no warning. Through the echoing, night-clad passages the perpetual, sonorous ticking of a clock adds pace and clarity to the job in hand, and we must act.

A split second later, we both rush at the door, splintering the seemingly impenetrable barrier like matchwood beneath our shoulders, tumbling headlong into the room and onto the sleeping form of Mr Birdy Edwards, who`s untimely death had been rather prematurely reported in recent coroner's papers, and who's shocked countenance often revisits me at night, eliciting a tiny smile each time.

"Long story short," pants John Watson, pulling the blathering idiot out of the wreckage of his hidey hole and to his shaking feet as we dust ourselves down, " _not dead_."

 **~x~**

The customs officer is young, nervous, sweating visibly and has recently returned to work after a workplace accident, but she is immutable and steadfast in her stance.

"I realise your paperwork appears to be in order sir, and I also realise your time is limited- " barely five feet tall, she stares up into the malevolent, narrowed gaze of her dissatisfied traveller " -but so is _mine_."

Walking around the coffin-shaped, vacuum-packed crate, the officer is tapping her pen against her teeth, slowly and rhythmically in a manner more irritating than whistling, cracking one's knuckles, or even dragging a fingernail across a blackboard. Her sigh, although far from convincing, evinces a barely contained tremor of agitated impatience from the (possible) owner of the goods atop the pallet.

"I am finding it difficult, madam, to understand why we are being detained in this manner, since everything appears to have been filed and catalogued. All necessary permits have been applied for…"

A taller, fair-haired man (long-time assistant to the customs officer, and currently still harbouring the long-time crush he has developed since probably their first meeting) appears from a small door next to the customs desk. He has a clipboard and several walkie-talkies, all crackling in spontaneous eruptions of static at intermittent intervals. He has had pasta for lunch. He did not care for it.

"Ms Ford-Maddox, Mr Norton has confirmed the documentation from the Pica Corporation regarding this shipment - everything has been signed back at the docks."

She stops tapping and looks at her lovelorn colleague, tilting her head slightly as she turns back to consider the glistening black plastic casings waiting for their admittance into her domain. People are gathering behind the barriers and a degree of rubber-necked curiosity is creating the buzz of a murmuration amongst the impatient. Mr Package-owner has had enough.

"This is intolerable treatment! _Pica_ has shipped through Heathrow weekly for the past twenty years with no problems whatsoever; our record is exemplary!"

The murmur increases, mobile phones are being pulled out of pockets of bored queuers, as if anticipating a potentially scandalous face-off at HM Customs, and in the distance, a child screams and launches into wracking sobs. As if in sympathy, one of Mr Customs-assistant`s walkie-talkies chooses that exact moment to crackle into life, jolting the dissatisfied traveller into silence, and evincing a small (almost invisible to the naked eye) bead of sweat to roll from the temple of Ms Ford-Maddox. Mr Customs assistant takes the information in, face dropping in an almost comical pantomime of surprise as he turns to his superior.

"It's word from _the top_ -" looking as apologetic as it is possible for a man in his position to be (sentimental; entirely unsuited for said position) as he continues:

"We have to open the package."

And the camera phones begin to flash.

 **~x~**

Luckily for _Pica Industries_ , the scandal of the smuggled jade deities was a little overshadowed by the scandal of the Deputy Prime Minister's love child being discovered living on a council estate in Woking, in a less that newsworthy week, but the social media whispers had begun, and there is rarely smoke without a determined pyromaniac and a decent propellent. Thus, in the weeks that followed, more shipments were interrupted and checked, and although nothing was found, whispers became words, words became incantations, and incantations became sign-writing, billboard high, in Times Square.

' _Antiquities Bungle - Blue Chip company red-faced' (The Guardian)_

' _Pica Industries - is our heritage safe in this multi-national free-for-all?' (The Daily Telegraph)_

' _Stock Market shock for Pica Industries - twenty years of reliability failing' (Financial Times)_

' _Grave Robbers go belly-up!' (The Sun)_

Yet, the pundit who proclaims that all publicity (even bad) is actually _good publicity_ must now shrug his shoulders and accept defeat in the face of such encroaching mendicity. Stocks fall by the hour and bulls become bears as the sun goes down on another day on Wall Street. In the three and a half weeks following the discovery at Heathrow, the world-renowned _Pica Industries_ is forced to close its Far East and Northern European subsidiaries, with the US and UK operations hanging in the balance. Across the internet, from Reddit to Facebook, from Tumblr to Instagram, the whispers are fanned into flames, damage is done, and all anyone can really do is… _burn_.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **a/n:**

 **pica pica is the latin name for magpie**


	12. Family

" **The ones that love us never really leave us."**

 **(JK Rowling)**

* * *

 **Part Five: Reckonings**

Deep within his Mind Palace, Sherlock finds he cannot broach many of its doors. Benedict and Viola are closed to him, as are Seiga, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade. John Watson can be accessed, as can Molly, but his views of them are hazy, unpredictable, weak. Sherlock's head is aching within his Mind Palace, and he finds himself forgetting whole filing cabinets and desk drawers of information. Sherlock stares into the emptiness and feels a churning from within.

" _\- drawn him out._ "

Sherlock looks up from within the Palace, to the top of the parapet where sits his brother, with pernicious information, and he reluctantly decides where his priorities lie.

" - so nice you could join us. Sherlock, I was recounting to Doctor Watson - "

"John."

"To John, how crumbling feet of clay might precipitate a very nasty and public fall from grace."

Sherlock's eyes pop open, allowing his nausea to fade and his aching head to lessen in its intensity.

"We have _Pica_ _Industries_ at a disadvantage?" Mycroft swims into view. _Irritating..._ especially now that he is smiling _that_ smile. He was so proud of that social media smear campaign.

"You know we do. The time is now Sherlock; he has shown himself and everything is as it should be."

Sherlock closes his eyes once more, wondering why a faint beeping emerges into his consciousness when there is no logical explanation for it. He is tired, so tired, but cannot fail to note the slight pressure from a gloved hand across his arm, as rare as henbane, as almost as unwelcome.

"This is more than over, Mycroft."

"I need to believe you."

"Seiga will be safe. Everyone will be safe. His empire is crumbling." He flashes them open, making his brother flinch (always a pleasure) and reluctantly notes how old Mycroft is looking these days. Ageing betrays one's humanity, and Sherlock is almost (yet not quite) ready to attribute a degree of such to his older brother, if not himself.

"You're going to have to trust us with this one, Mycroft." John is standing over his friend, disliking his pallor, his languor, his lethargy, and even places a protective hand across Sherlock's shoulder. "We do this, and it's over. No more governmental fuck-ups, no more IOU`s, no more demands, except for cases involving stuff like lying husbands, bizarre codes or missing budgies. The Criminal masterminds can just … _piss off_ for a bit. What do you say?"

Refined as he ever could be, Mycroft Holmes inclines his head, tightening his grip on his umbrella handle, whilst wondering when he might message their sister-

"Forget about Seiga, bror kära," murmurs Sherlock, from behind his hand as he fights his exhaustion. "I cannot use her."

"Sexist claptrap. She is highly trained-" begins Mycroft.

"-and entirely pregnant," completes his brother, sighing slightly. "Are you without eyes?"

Judging by the slight tremor in the corner of Mycroft's left eye, it would indeed seem that familial bonds are not always so conducive to clarity of mind.

"I'm ready," adds Sherlock.

And he is.

 **~x~**

He hears the slightly hesitant and punctuated notes drifting up the stairs from Mrs Hudson's kitchen: _Fur Elise._ Ben. Sherlock steps down one, then two stairs, holding tight the bannister as he listens to the familiarly haunting refrain. The change between A minor and E major was clunky, and the ⅜ time was more than dubious, but it was… _beautiful_. Two more steps and the note falters, then continues, building in confidence until it enters its lighter section in F major… two more steps and Sherlock is near to the kitchen door (slightly ajar), then two more. The notes remain pure and hold him, stationary; eyes prickling and throat tight. The gap in the doorway spills light into the murky hall and Sherlock can see the dark, haphazard curls of his son's perfect head, and the rise and fall of his bow. Beyond, he sees Mrs Hudson, hands clasped rapturously beneath her chin, an adoring smile playing across her lips as her eyes crinkle with pleasure. He knows exactly how she feels at that moment, watching the small, upright, stiff little figure, pale fingers curled tightly around his bow, grey flannel shorts of his school uniform flapping around skinny, gangly legs, shirt tails hanging from his waistband on the left side ( _like me_ , thinks Sherlock, _my shirt does that even now_ ) and he stands, holding his breath until the last note sounds and Benedict lowers his bow, bowing for his audience. She claps and claps, bringing the boy towards her and embracing his set shoulders, violin, bow and all.

"Bravo, Ben! Bravo my darling! You play so very beautifully. Your daddy will be so proud of you!"

 _I am!_ Sherlock is close to weeping as he leans against the newel post, weakened by an untold dread. _I am, my beautiful son, I am. I love you, I love you, I love you._

 **~x~**

John Watson still has his key, opening up 221B in the same way as 221B had opened _him._ His living here with Sherlock Holmes had opened up his life at a point when he had almost completely closed it down. He steps into the hallway, not bothering to remove his outdoor clothes, since they would very soon be leaving for New Brunswick Street, and a meeting that had to end things. They had all worked so hard over the past five weeks. Thanks to the very useful songs chirped forth by Birdy Edwards (who had faked his own death and gone into hiding to escape the clutches of his ex-employer) the die had been cast and a multi-million pound company that had been founded upon the extortion and suffering of others was set on the brink of collapse. Professor Bartholomew Moriarty had not allowed for the singular, Machiavellian and cold-hearted logic of the Holmes brothers, who had left no stone unturned to restore a brilliantly successful business back to the stinking cankerous slurry tank that it really was. Mycroft had arranged for the stolen jade artefacts to be planted in the very innocent (and entirely legal) consignment of South American snuff boxes, allowing the viral heartworm that is the internet to do its worst.

 _And it really had._

Thus, that very morning, Sherlock had received a hand delivered message inviting them both for 'a nightcap' at the Arts & Philosophy Society with the Professor that evening, to 'talk things over.'

"Civilised," John had remarked.

"Indeed," Sherlock had returned. " _Murder by invitation_ appears more than amenable."

They had both laughed darkly at their situation, but John felt his friend's melancholy weighing heavy and suddenly had wanted nothing more than to take his shoulders, shake him and tell him that they didn't have to do this; that they could get into a cab and go somewhere else - _anywhere_ \- until Mycroft had brought in Special Branch, or the SAS, or MI6, or _someone_ to sort the whole thing out.

But he didn't. Because Sherlock was going to have to do it. Because Sherlock _needed_ to do it, whatever the consequences, however much his hands shook and however pallid his complexion.

A sudden cascade of notes breaks the silence, cutting through both the murkiness of an unlit hallway and John's own thoughts as he finds bright relief in a light melody that seems to invite him up the stairs and imbue his dark introspection with a sudden optimistic caste. As he ascends, John identifies the player (Sherlock - the surety and commitment to the piece is swiftly recognisable) and furthermore discerns the sweetly demonic cackle of a young child (Viola), clearly as invested in the music as he is.

Pushing open the sitting room door, John is unable (and unwilling) to dampen down the grin that populates his face at the sight set before him. Molly Hooper stands at the fireplace, wearing what can only be described as a _tiara_ and holding her squealing daughter ( _also wearing a tiara_ ) who throws forth chubby arms and wriggles with a determination only matched by John's own memory of her father's, when the latter had been tied to a sinking boat's yard arm as the tide was rising ( _The Yorvil Yachting Ritual - 34,000 hits and counting)._ Sherlock himself stands before the windows, playing with a serious yet discernable joy as his son films the whole thing on his mother's phone. It is only then that John realises that he is not listening to Tchaikovsky at all, and that Sherlock Holmes has made it his business to learn the violin version of _Let It Go_ from Disney's _Frozen_ in order to make his daughter smile. _The family. The unit_. Whatever had estranged them in weeks gone by, or whatever happened tonight, this moment was nothing less than _perfect._

 **~x~**

Sherlock does not say goodbye to his wife, but merely cards his long, pale fingers through the shining amber of her hair, twisting it lightly, watching the glow from the lamp illuminate its sheen. Letting it fall, he touches her forehead, the tip of her nose and finally, her curved mouth, before touching his own. John feels a heated flush flood his face at being witness to such intimacy, yet it lasts for only seconds before his friend turns away, bundling them both down the stairs and into the waiting cab. Neither of them speak for the entire journey.

 **~x~**


	13. Quid Pro Quo

" **We're each alone inside our heads, some more so than others."**

 **(Jonathan Maberry, Dust and Decay)**

* * *

 **Part Six: Declivity**

(Sherlock POV)

Such a benign figure from the outside, helpless even - a gentle disposition and a paternal demeanor. Jim Moriarty's brother has none of his maniac glitter and showmanship, none of his unhinged, pantomime eye-rolls and sing-song tauntings. Bartholomew Moriarty appears not as a malignant, bottled spider at the centre of a diabolical web, but rather a well-dressed, slightly hunched grandfather taking his family out for supper. His cane, perhaps his only concession to archetypal villainy, never leaves his side as he contemplates me - ebony with amber top (strangely familiar), wrapped within a gloved, bird-like grasp. We have, of course, met under less than judicious circumstances in a tunnel beneath the River Tyne years previously, yet everything about Professor Moriarty seems so fresh in my mind.

"I worry, Sherlock, for you."

Strangely startled, I am overwhelmed a little by deja vu.

"Don't," I whisper, calculating rapidly whether the man pointing a gun in my direction would be sufficiently poor in his responses if I risked a kick to his weaker knee. I reject the idea, since my children should not be rendered fatherless by such tenuous strategy. I try to think, but the pain in my head is becoming untenable, and I must safeguard John.

"Doctor Watson is of no use to you, please allow him to leave."

His black eyes glitter as he smooths the amber with aged fingers and the grandfather is gone.

"But he is of use to _you_ , Sherlock, which is why I should like him to stay."

I consider and reject two more means of escape ( _hurry hurry_ ) and consider where they may have taken John. My options - weak to begin with - are becoming increasingly limited and a burgeoning and unwelcome realisation rises, bloated and ungodly, through the unrelenting pain:

I am entirely reliant on his goodwill.

"I ask to see Seiga, my daughter, Sherlock, and how do you respond?"

I close my eyes and the _beep beep beep_ inside my head intensifies slightly (has it ever really not been there?).

"We besmirch your organisation and ruin the reputation of your trading world-wide," I reply, quite understanding that goodwill promises to be scarce. "We falsify your records, plant damning evidence and ensure that _Pica Industries_ shall never be taken seriously again."

"That you did." His voice is calm, but his knuckles are white.

"And I would do it all again," I add, looking at a face that swims in and out of focus, "since your organisation is at the root of so much that is criminal, immoral, cruel, destructive and murderous in this world. For every innocent dealing within _Pica Industries_ , there are three more which are trading voraciously on the backs of child sex workers, drug traffickers, gang warfare, the poverty-stricken and the hopeless." I lower my voice infinitesimally, leaning forward in my chair and eliciting a nervous twitch from my lone gunman.

"And please remember," I murmur, "that the last time I met a Moriarty in a high place, he ran out of options so readily he felt compelled to put a gun in his mouth." The evening air plucks slightly at the tassels on his silken scarf and the muted sound of traffic can be heard from far below.

"It is incredibly easy to elicit fear and menace with a loaded gun. Your brother was a coward and I am more than disappointed to find it a familial trait…"

A hiss escapes him and I fear I have gone to far, but words are my only weapons now and I make them count. He oscillates his head, lizard-like and contemplative and entirely like his brother then, miraculously, waves away my guard.

"Leave us."

The other man's eyes flicker slightly, but he knows better than to object and lowers his gun. Within a minute, he has left the rooftop and we are alone.

"When a man's occupation has gone," The professor speaks in a soft whisper which offers an insidious intimidation hitherto unseen, "he might find himself at a loose end. He might feel inclined to find his solace in a vengeful set of behaviours."

"You, of course, wish to kill me."

"Bring your sister to me and an agreement could be arranged."

"No."

The rooftop is poorly illuminated, with only a caged bulb above the staircase doorway. A small, ornate balustrade runs around its edge, linking carved stone lintels, heraldic creatures and mis-shapen gargoyles. He stands, leaning heavily across his cane and gestures towards the edge.

"Everything I might say regarding the outcome of this evening has already crossed your mind, no?"

I acquiesce. "And then my answer to your question must have already crossed yours."

"I fear you are a little unwell, Sherlock. You are perspiring, trembling even. I do understand you are not afraid of me, therefore I deduce you are in some considerable pain, and have been for some time."

I shake my head, in vain attempt to rid it of its tormentors.I am suddenly hot beyond endurance, and shed my coat where I stand, allowing it to pool about my feet. My shirt sticks to my back, my chest and a wave of prickling nausea washes over me. Professor Moriarty beckons me toward the balustrade.

"You love, don't you? I know. I can tell. Your weakness is your heart - it always was. For such a cold, logical, cerebrally isolated man, you are entirely sentimental. Your friendship with the good Doctor, your siblings, your children and your sweet, little wife. No, you must not feel shame for this, Sherlock. We all of us know things, many things, _too much_ \- and we feel too little." His hand tightens across the amber, and all I see is Molly's hair, bright, glowing, incandescent.

"But not _you_ , Sherlock. You feel everything and you will not enjoy looking over your shoulder every hour of every day and wondering, for your son, your daughter, your wife, if this is the day you will lose them."

And I do. I see it now. My head buzzes and my knees almost buckle as I shakily rise to my feet. This is what he requires; a _quid pro quo_ , an exchange, a sacrifice so that a balance is restored. A final check-mate remains for us at the top of this antiquated chess club, where old men would take refuge from their nearest and dearest and indulge their inexplicable pastime. If I give myself, I will wipe clean the slate and my people will be safe. I nod, to show my understanding, and allow him to take my hand (my balance is no more) as I step up onto the ledge. The night sky is clear, and shimmers with a thousand tiny suns as I look up into the moon's glowing radiance.

Holding the cold stone, I feel ancient lichens beneath my fingertips as the wind whips at my shirt, lifting it and cooling the molten depths of me, caressing my hair, my face like a lover. Dawn must be closer than I had realised as a faint glow appears to peel around the edges of the night. The noise inside my head is mounting; rumblings and murmurings, like the wind itself, calling my name.

"I might be dying," I murmur so that the man at my side may hear. He is wondering, I know, about his brother's last moments with me, but I shall never tell since some things should follow you into the grave.

"That you might," concurs Professor Moriarty, letting go of my hand as I sway slightly above the moving lights of the city beneath. "You have my word, Sherlock, that your family, your friends shall be safe from my attentions - "

Thunderous footfalls and the electrifying shriek of the rooftop door crashes through his words, announcing the sudden appearance of John Watson, bloody, breathless and majestically silhouetted against the light from the stairwell. I realise instantly that I have very little time as I know better than to underestimate my friend's resolve.

" _SHERLOCK!"_

I know by the set of his hand that he is without his weapon, which must give me a few more seconds. Grabbing the professor's wrist with what strength remains to me, I pull him close, ignoring the delicacy of old bones and frailty of old joints, until we are inches apart, face to face.

"Your word," I bite the words out through gritted teeth as the brightness of the dawn glows fierce in my peripheral vision, flooding the morning sky with yellow, "is worth _nothing_."

And I dig my fingers into his scarf, his woollen collar and pull him into me, as lovers would do, as I lean outwards, over the balustrade.

" _Sherlock! God! Oh my God! Oh Jesus-"_

We fall backwards, held tight in a deathly embrace and I wonder (almost casually) if the screams are his or mine as the dawn brightens and brightens, until a dazzling scintillation of burning light swallows us down.

 **~x~**


	14. A Familiar Face

**CHAPTER SIX: REALITY RETURNED**

 _ **Why are you so in love with the unbearable?**_

 **(Sophocles, Elektra)**

* * *

 **Part 1: Healing**

She hunches over the phone, defensive, an old habit.

"- yes, yes, I'm still here… no, I don't sleep here… no. You are exaggerating wildly… yes, because it's my _job_ , mum."

Sighing, Molly Hooper draws her knees up to her chest, wrapping one arm around herself; cold comfort on a cold, marble workbench. She was trying to speak softly, to elicit as little cause to infuriate her mother as possible, but it seemed the woman was hell bent on the traditional trajectory of _Grand Inquisitor meets reluctant introvert_ (a time honoured tradition in the Hooper childhood home).

"What?" She knows her voice has risen slightly, but it was entirely involuntary. "No, mum, I've told you, I'm here to visit my friend _as well as_ work… my _friend_ … yes, that surly bloke you met at the Christmas party… yes, the one who's - " Her mother waits, but Molly finds she cannot finish the sentence. She pauses, takes a breath and:

"The one who- " Again with the cut-off? Molly Hooper, this is a sure fire way of piquing the old bugger's interest and lengthening this call by a further fifteen minutes. Get a ruddy grip.

"He's _ill._ (well done, stupid girl) … yes, very sick. Br-brain tumour… no, I said _brain_...yes, I am a pathologist, remember?"

Tired, she's obviously tired. Been at the hospital every waking moment (and most sleeping ones), working robotically down here, then _up there_ , watching him, willing him awake by sheer force of her positive thoughts and relentless drivel. _Idiot_. God, she can just imagine him saying it. Three and a half years ago, with the riding crop. _That Molly Hooper_ , he would have said to John Watson, _she is just so eager_. _She'll find me anything I need_. But _that_ Sherlock isn't _this_ Sherlock. This Sherlock is a broken, ruined shell, all beautiful arrogance and supercilious expectation crumbled away, like dust. Molly leans into the door of the glassware cupboard, and focuses on the sounds in the laboratory, blotting out the rattle and crackle of her mother's metallic sounding chatter down the line. The gentle hum of the homogenizer on its final cycle, the buzzing of the fluorescent bulb that had been faulty for at least six months, the dripping of the tap on the second sink (nearest the door) and the far off drone of the floor buffer in the corridor outside (Louise would be passing by in the next five minutes, regular as clockwork). These are the soundbytes of my life, thinks Molly Hooper. This is my world, and my home, if truth be told, and Sherlock Holmes was part of this hidden little world of mine; this was where I had him to myself.

A buzz along the line and Molly realises her mother is still talking.

"...no, no mum, just a friend… no, maybe not such a _friendly_ one, but …" She tilts her head back, blinking to stop the ridiculous tears that bubble so close to the surface, _all of the bloody time_. Seven days of coma, and every hour of unconsciousness leeches away more hope of his return from it. "No, I'm not getting a cold, it's...allergies. Yeah… mmm, yes mum -" a shadow passes across the frosted glass of the doorway and the handle twists. Molly's heart drops like a stone and she almost falls from the marble bench onto the floor, phone still cradled in her shoulder.

"Mum - I've got to go."

 **~x~**

The nurse is whispering, as if a person who has just regained his consciousness after a week of oblivion would want to be left out of the loop once more.

"Everyone's unreachable, Molly. I've tried Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, the Inspector… his parents, naturally, but I can't get hold of anyone! Well, thank God, Jessica on the desk remembered you were still down in the Morgue and might not have left yet, so I took a chance… I just wanted him to have a recognisable face to look at."

Molly touches her arm and is grateful she remembers her name without needing to glance at her badge.

"It's ok, Clarice, it's not your fault - just keep trying. I think there's some roadworks on the Giltspur Junction, near the mast. They've most likely messed up and the signal is down. We'll get in touch, I promise."

The woman gestured over to the bed.

"We've just got so fond of Sherlock," she whispers. "We all remember him helping out Mr and Mrs Jokavitch with their son that time, and that business with the pension fund and that awful Mr Collingwood…" She stops, putting her hand across Molly's arm. "I think I'll shut up now, Molly, and let you say hello."

Kindly Nurse Clarice is smiling her beautifully open smile, but Molly doesn't see it, because she's walking over to the white bed within the huge, glass cube, and she's looking at Sherlock.

 **~x~**

(Molly POV)

They've pulled out his breathing intubation and almost every other wire and tube. All he's got now is the nasal cannula and a saline drip, and I'm astonished to see his eyes wide open, looking at me intently, like I'm an animal in the zoo and he's the paying customer. Brightest of blue, spiky lashes and pupils only slightly dilated, and I also wonder how long the morphine has been gone. _It must have been so dark for you, my darling, it must have been like being buried alive to have your mind so compromised, so invaded._ The surgery was technically a success, but the swelling so great that an induced coma was the only way to facilitate the healing process. In all the time I`ve known Sherlock, I`ve never known him to be 'offline' for even a moment, so weeks of confusion and then seven days of oblivion must have been indescribable. He blinks, still staring, and I suddenly experience a massive lurch of realisation and have to put out a hand to steady myself. A cold sweat washes over me, adrenalin prickling at my fingers and toes and my heart racing in my chest -

 _How great is his damage?_

The nurse wanted a familiar face, but what if my face is unfamiliar? What if the tumor took away too much of him with it? My hands are shaking and I clench my fists, digging fingernails in hard to stop them-

"Molly Hooper," he whispers, through the cracked dry lips and rasping throat of the recently intubated, "I do hope your mother's weekly phone call wasn't interrupted too prematurely. I would not wish to be held responsible for curtailing her haranguing to less than the usual hour."

Now it is my turn to stare.

"Indentations made by your mobile beneath your chin, " he croaks. "Appallingly restrictive to the blood flow to hold a phone this way, yet you do it every time she calls."

I stare some more, but am suddenly aware of a chair behind my legs and a hand on my shoulder, pushing me down onto it. Nurse Clarice.

"You looked like you might fall," she whispers, handing me a tissue, as I appear to be crying.

"I thought I'd told you before Sherlock, stop upsetting the ladies!" And she laughs quietly as she adjusts his blankets.

 **~x~**

"You looked certain to faint." I am holding a cup of water to the mouth of Sherlock Holmes, and he is drinking tiny sips from the straw, in-between making unwelcome observations and asking difficult questions.

"Well," I counter, "that would make a change for it to be _me_ , since every time I've seen you over the last month or so, you've been flat on your back …"

We pause, and a crimson wave of embarrassment now floods my face as I realise my rather inappropriate choice of words, but Sherlock smiles as he spits out the straw (rather ungraciously too).

"What I mean to say is that… well, you've been… oh, you've gone through the shittiest of times, Sherlock."

"Quite the most indeterminate, mercurial few months of my life," he croaks, calmly. "Everything is strangely nebulous, uncertain." He takes the straw again, sucking thoughtfully for a moment, and then:

"Molly, I had the _strangest_ dreams…"

"Yes, I`ve read, somewhere... people coming out of induced comas do replicate the circadian sleep patterns to some extent. Your subconscious would have been trying to make sense of what was happening around you - in real life. One night, you had this awful fever. You were burning up; they had to wrap you in ice- "

" _You_ were here."

He speaks with a gravelly certitude.

"You put ice in my mouth." His eyes widen at the memory. "You said, ` _saline is fine, but'_ -"

" _Ice is... so nice_ ," I finish, slowly. "Oh, God, Sherlock, you could hear us! I knew that you could hear us!" I so wish I could stop the tears, but they seem to have taken hold. "I spoke to you! I told you so much... _stuff_ \- such rubbish…"

I'm babbling now, and it seems just as uncontrollable as the crying. "I had to, Sherlock, I had to - " _Jesus, full-on, hiccoughing sobs, how marvellous_ \- "I just - I just …"

I am brave enough to look at him (the man who thought me so inconsequential for so long, and then, gradually, he _didn't_ ) and his jaw is set, his teeth clenched and brow drawn, but I go on...

"I just couldn't bear the idea of you thinking we had abandoned you… in the dark, so I… I spoke to you."

Resting my burning, red raw, woeful face on his sheets, I cry and cry - past shame, past regret, past care - for minutes _(possibly hours_ ) until, astonishingly, I feel the dry warmth of his hand cover my own and _oh-so-gently_ , squeeze it.

"I know," he whispers. "I heard you."

 **~x~**


	15. Making Assumptions

(John POV)

I steer the chair, awkwardly at first, but then with increasing confidence as we go past the side wards, the nurses station ( _Hi, Sherlock!_ ), the kitchen, and a seating area full of pot plants, vending machines and posters featuring diseased lungs and dire warnings.

"God, I need a cigarette."

"Shut up and let me push you."

"You're loving this."

"Yes, Sherlock… yes I am."

Mary waves at us through a giant weeping fig, indicating drinks procured from Bart's own branch of Starbucks at her table, and beaming widely.

"I sincerely hope that's coffee."

"Chai tea for you, English Patient. Strictly no stimulants, doctor's orders."

"I'm missing the coma already."

"Hush and drink your chai. John, can I have a go of pushing him now?"

Later, when she's gone back to the surgery, I sit with him in the bright afternoon sunshine, watching a small boy hold his mother's hand tightly as he throws scraps to the goldfish in the hospital garden's little pond. Sherlock is pale and easily exhausted, but he closes his eyes against the warming rays, drinking in the light, the birdsong, the life of the world outside, and I watch him, silently.

"It's fine, John," he says, without opening his eyes. _"I'm_ fine. You can stop worrying I'm about to have an embolism at any moment."

"I guess I couldn't be that lucky."

He smiles. "The pain is gone, John. I am able to enjoy being inside my head again. It is _joyous_."

I am about to say something glib, since that's often how we talk, my friend and I - it's the currency we exchange from hour to hour, day to day, when things are calm and relaxed, but particularly when they are tough and harsh and difficult to bear. It's what we do. However, now I find the words won't come, since my chest and throat are tight and it's difficult to take in air. Sherlock's eyes shoot open and he looks at me with his typical intensity as I sit, silent and ridiculous and unable to swallow properly.

"I- I`m so... _glad_." I turn, unable to see him anymore, because I did think I would never see him whole again. I watch the little boy turn the bread bag upside down, emptying the last few crumbs into the pond and wave goodbye to ' _the fishies_ '. Sherlock says nothing, obviously giving me a moment or two, until I take a deep, cleansing breath and lean forward, elbows resting on my thighs. Blossom has given way to bright azaleas, rhododendrons and pale magnolias and I study the stray, white petals as they float across the garden whenever a slight breeze lifts them.

"I want you to always be my best friend, John," he says, suddenly and without preamble ( _some things never really change_ ). "Wherever I go, you are always there to take care of me."

"Yeah," I say, still staring across the garden and not trusting myself with more. Then: "Don't do that again, ok? Just _don't."_

And we both watch the mother pick up her son, laughing, as she walks through the bright garden archway into the outside world.

 _ **~x~**_

The sun is much lower as I slowly wheel Sherlock back into the hospital, and the afternoon is considerably cooler. Undoubtedly nurse Irene or maybe Joely, or Clarice, will give me a significant telling off for keeping him out so long, but I am pretty selfish sometimes, and I think we both needed to heal a little bit.

"I think you should ask Mary as soon as possible." ( _remember what I said about the lack of preamble?)_

"Eh? I just asked you if you wanted half a Kit-Kat. Ask Mary what?"

"To marry you, naturally. She has stuck by you through what has probably been a fairly traumatic time ( _my fault, apologies_ ) and has been more than supportive on every level. You share a sense of humour (irritatingly) and seem atrociously compatible on a sexual level - "

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock!"

"The tumour didn't affect my hearing, John. You share clothes, working and leisure hours and I am fully aware how hard you've been saving for a deposit on a house of your own - "

"How? _How_ are you fully aware? You've only just woken up from a coma!"

"Furthermore, I witnessed your expression in the garden just this afternoon, watching that mother and child. You covet that - you have a desire for a family life, children of your own, which has only really blossomed forth since meeting with Miss Morstan. For what it's worth, I applaud your choice and will support you in your endeavors. I am entirely certain of _your_ desires, but Mary is a little more tricky to read. I give the proposal a 94% chance of success."

A little silence, whilst I gather my thoughts, then:

"You're unbelievable."

"Thank you."

"Not a compliment."

"I know."

 **~x~**

"Meiringen."

"Yes."

"Home of the meringue. How fitting."

"Not my sole reason for choosing this clinic, Sherlock."

Mycroft Holmes almost forgets to sigh and roll his eyes at his little brother, such is his joy at Sherlock's miraculous survival, but endeavours to do so anyway, since appearances are everything.

"If you will just entertain an idea that you yourself did not personally engineer for a moment, you might find my suggestion a little more amenable. The mountain air offers much in the way of recuperative powers, and the clinic itself boasts some of the best rehabilitation facilities in Europe."

"Almost 600m above sea level, Mycroft. The last thing I need is a nosebleed."

"The views are unparallelled, and I do believe their waterfalls are more than impressive."

"What a charming travel guide you would make, dear brother, yet I must assure you that I do not need a Swiss rehabilitation clinic, nor a sweep of roaring water which could turn a man giddy with its constant whirl and clamor. I have been given another chance to think and now I may do so, I wish only to work. Work is how I will heal myself."

Mycroft sits back, outwardly leisurely and deceptively casual. Sherlock has seen it all before, and is therefore preparing his counter-attack before his older brother opens his mouth. It is most impressive then, that Mycroft may still at times, surprise him.

"Oh, I am sure the sutures in your head will heal efficiently and with minimal scarring Sherlock, but you should take heed; your brain has been severely compromised and even though you walk and talk and eat and sleep as much as you have ever done, you may find yourself not to _be_ as you ever were."

Sherlock scoffs, turning away and reaching for his headphones, but although his actions affect a rude indifference, it is only an artifice, a show to persuade his brother (and more importantly, himself) that those words did not provoke a flicker of disquiet within him. The tumour is gone, his head is clear and his energy is returning, he can feel it.

 _But_ …

He had wandered in his head, in his own disjointed and diseased mind palace for so long, it was like looking through a glass darkly, and things that had been seen, however imaginary, were difficult to unsee. Perhaps it was that not all those who wander are lost, and that some paths are meant to be forged.

 **~x~**

 **Part 2: Confessing**

John has been somewhat cock-a-hoop since Miss Morstan accepted his proposal, yet I find I am unable to be derisive or scathing in anyway about his happiness. Although I shall miss him more than he will ever truly know, I understand that she is his heart's desire, and I have had recent cause to discover that the heart wants what it wants.

My own cerebral skirmish (John hates it when I call it that) was indeed terrifying and humbling. How much have I taken my mind and its processes for granted? How much have I derided and discredited others who were not as blessed as myself? Such hubris was bound to anger the gods at some point, I suppose, and at that point, everything I had, everything I was, hung precariously in the balance. Good fortune favoured me, clearly, yet I was not left entirely unscathed ( _damn you Mycroft, why must you know everything?_ ) since I now can no longer be simply a brain without a heart, an excellent mind with the rest of me a mere appendix. The brain is a devious organ, always evolving and re-inventing itself so that it might survive trauma, damage and disease. When a pathway is compromised, another is forged, and when parts are unused, it endeavours to re-route its transport to pastures new.

Thus, thanks to such machiavellian and devilish devices, I was forced to hover between worlds and to experience the alternate universe of my unconscious, my alter-ego, my _road less travelled_. I chose alone, I chose cold clear analysis and logical outcomes, I chose to relegate my humanity to the basement cellar of my mind, but the engine warning light decided otherwise and I was made to see another path.

' _We all of us know things, many things, too much - and we feel too little.'_

I created an arch-villain, a nemesis, to tell me things I could not tell myself.

' _You love, don't you? I know. I can tell. Your weakness is your heart - it always was. For such a cold, logical, cerebrally isolated man, you are entirely sentimental.'_

I created a family - sister, son, daughter, _wife_ …

I created a life that I thought I could never _(should never)_ have, because my central cortex, my limbic system, my amygdala and my hippocampus had all conspired and said:

 _Enough._

 _Live. Feel. Care._

 _Love._

 **~x~**


	16. A Supplication

**CHAPTER SIX: A NEW REALITY**

" **Having perfected our disguise, we spend our whole lives searching for someone we don't fool."**

 **(Robert Brault)**

* * *

 **Part 1: Gatherings**

 **One year later...**

We are literally _running._ We are running, haphazardly, towards an actual _House of God_ and at least one of us is swearing.

"Shit...Fuck... Shit... Oh good-fricking-God!"

The other one of us is jogging casually whilst consulting their _SatNav,_ their _Google Maps_ and their _London Church Repository Guide_ (I confess I made the last one up) before stopping abruptly in front of a shop front to adjust a tie and ruffle hair.

One of us is _me_ (Molly Hooper) and the other is _he_ (Sherlock Holmes) and I am more than certain that you have attributed us correctly to these actions.

"This is the church."

"You said that about the last one. And the one before that."

"I feel this is the one."

"Unscientific in the extreme."

"What do either of us owe to science?"

"Everything."

A pause.

"Nevertheless."

"Sherlock… we can NOT be late."

So we run.

 **~x~**

"Parents and godparents, the Church receives this child with joy. Today we are trusting God for his growth in faith. Will you pray for him, draw him by your example into the community of faith and walk with him in the way of Christ?"

"With the help of God,we will."

We stand, stiff, sweating silently beneath our Sunday best and apologetic in our supplication of the offerings we hold forth. Sherlock, Lestrade, Harry Watson and myself stand, each with our own discomfiture and crosses to bear, but most importantly, we all acknowledge the solemnity of our roles and our obligations towards the squirming baby in Mary Watson's arms.

"In baptism this child begins his journey in faith. You speak for him today. Will you care for him, and help him to take his place within the life and worship of Christ's Church?"

"With the help of God, we will."

Harry is hopelessly hungover and a hairsbreadth away from retching into the font; Lestrade is fidgeting with his collar and wondering if his phone is out of charge, since he is expecting a text at any minute from a girl by the name of Sarah Houseman, with whom he shared sushi, saki and filthy jokes the night before; Sherlock Holmes is contemplating the imminent, fearful alignment of godfather/baby interface and the trouble he will be in should he, in any way, upset John and Mary's son, causing him to bawl his distress through the echoing chambers of St. Mary's and St. Thomas Aquinas. As for myself, I am enjoying the entire juxtaposition of events, since I am standing in a beautiful building with many people I love, and as these friendships are my currency in life, I need do nothing but revel in their idiosyncratic insanities. Thus, I offer Harry a glucose tablet and a breath mint, Lestrade my portable charger and Sherlock a wink and and degree of understanding: _hold the baby tightly fella - I have your back_. They look, they smile, they accept, and we all stand, ready to do our duty.

And with the help of God, we will.

 **~x~**

I catch sight of Greg blushing sweetly into his phone as the canapes are being passed around, and Harry is laughing heroically into her soda and lime. I smile, and it is doubly sweet, since I calculate I have made at least fifty quid in the last hour, simply by being a smartarse.

"Unbelievable," murmurs Mary, walking by with a large gin and tonic and a sardonic roll of her bright blue eyes as she discretely passes me the notes. "He looks so natural!"

Indeed, the sight of Sherlock Holmes, cradling the sleeping (and slightly cherubic) form of young Sholto Watson in the crook of his arm as he converses with an actual priest sends a shiver of appreciation (mixed with self-congratulation) down my spine.

In addition, I feel and shoot down an overwhelming sense of hopeless, romantic love at the sight of him, but I suppose I'm more than used to such idiocies and thus feel it is time to move on.

"He's had a little coaching," I confide, "but, truthfully, he was pretty good to start with."

"Sholto's been bawling on and off all morning - look at the little demon now, sleeping like a _real_ baby."

 _Sherlock Holmes, baby whisperer._

Thus, it seems that even Sherlock - a man not at all shy about showboating his talents - clearly has some hidden ones.

 **~x~**

We walk home _casual_ , sauntering almost, as if to compensate for earlier panic. I've removed pretty (yet crippling) shoes and Sherlock carries cake which clearly has no real purpose but to sabotage his brother's new diet. The evening is balmy and quiet, making London a little softer around the edges as birds twitter and day blends seamlessly into evening. We are companionably silent, glad to have executed _God-parental_ duties without disaster or disgrace. Sherlock in particular, had managed to curtail any atheistic rants he may have been harbouring, and gained another starry-eyed acolyte of his own when he'd informed Father O'Connell who amongst his flock had been making free with the church roof fund.

"Want to watch a bit of _Dexter_?" I break the silence as we prepare to part at the junction before Marylebone Park. "I've got Season 4 all queued up."

"Mmm... nope." He barely looks up from his phone as long, pale fingers jab like lightning at the keypad, a tiny crease forming between his brows.

I smile, watching him.

"Case?"

"Mmm…" he eventually looks up. "It seems embezzlers are no respecters of the _day of rest_ , nor recently inducted Godparents." His eyes flash briefly with something I can't quite interpret, then he adds:

"Tomorrow?" cocking one eyebrow as he pockets his phone, preparing to depart. I hesitate fractionally and he stops dead, eyes _everywhere_.

"Sherlock, stop it."

"What?"

"Deducing me. I feel naked - _exposed_ \- when you do it."

"Apologies."

He looks down then up, an odd smile breaking across his mouth.

"You have a _date_ tomorrow. I see it from your newly waxed brows (breaking from your fortnightly habit), your suspiciously orange knuckles (unused to fake tanning, but only does so for dates) and your tragically poor choice of footwear (breaking in new shoes and failing). Also, _mentionitis_."

I'm a bit cross, so I bite out " _what?_ " with a little huff to my tone.

" _Mentionitis_. I have noticed it so many times with John when he used to go on dates and use any opportunity to mention said woman by name and bring her into the conversation. It reached a critical stage with Mary, but luckily I was too busy hallucinating to become irritated. You have, Molly, spoken of _Andrew_ on no less than four occasions _today_ (odd, since no-one at the baptism had even met him) and seven in the lab yesterday-"

"Sherlock…"

I believe my tone might be described as _dangerous_ , but he appears oblivious.

"You refused biscuits when you came to Baker Street with the samples last Wednesday, and rejected canteen fodder ( perhaps more than understandable) in favour of under-seasoned leaves in tupperware boxes. The obvious conclusion must then be: dieting to impress potential sexual - "

" _That's enough!_ "

My tone is without ambiguity and even Sherlock Holmes manages to recognise this, ceasing in his litany immediately. I step closer, furious and therefore uncaring of personal space or boundaries of friendship.

"You and I, we are _friends_. Friends support each other's choices without dissecting them, viewing them beneath a microscope and speculating coldly and robotically about their findings. This, Sherlock, is a bit rubbish, and I'm pissed off because I thought we were past it."

As close as I am, I feel his breath on my skin as he sighs a little, and I see his beautiful, protean gaze lose strength as he breaks our stare. Sherlock straightens, adjusts his expression and inclines his head towards me. His words emerge as a whisper, a supplication of regret.

"I understand, I went too far. You have my apologies. Goodnight Molly."

He ducks a little in way of salutation and sprints across the junction just before the lights change.

 **~x~**


	17. A cure for what ails thee

**Part 2: Strategies**

(Sherlock POV)

My consultant from Bart's, Mycroft's 'man' from Harley Street and a dozen neurological experts (as well as John Watson) have all expressed awestruck wonderment at my full and almost unequivocal recovery from the brain tumour. Not only was it skilfully and totally removed with minimal damage to my healthy tissue, it was also pronounced encapsulated, without spread to other areas. Naturally, such news has both delighted and humbled me, since I have come to realise that I am not immune to the more mundane and inconvenient malfunctions of the _transport_ and should indeed do more to preserve and maintain its good health. Thus, I take walks, eat (fairly) often and endeavour to smoke only when extremely provoked. Dull, yet necessary. However, I must confess now, almost one year later, that _almost_ is not quite _total_ and that I have, in fact, been blighted by a residual and chronic malaise that, despite my healthy lifestyle, grows stronger instead of weaker, and now threatens to overwhelm.

Unusually, I take less solace in work, finding its succour increasingly ineffective. John has had much in the way of distractions of his own, therefore I have found myself without advice or guidance in addressing my lack of focus and desire for brainwork. Even with his help, how may I explain my perturbation by a world, a lifestyle I lived within my own head? Each day, I wake, I eat, I work, I drink, I sleep, but I cannot assuage this hunger that gnaws away at me. I know it cannot be cut out with a surgeon's scalpel, irradiated or chemically altered -

 _But it has to stop_.

 _I must be cured._

 **~x~**

(John POV)

My son looks up at me, all-knowing, like an omnipotent midget; like a child who might be giving his recently acquired father a little advice:

 _I hope you know what you're doing._

 _So do I, Sholto, so do I._

"What time is he coming?" Mary enters the bedroom, seemingly without any need for frame of reference.

"Who? Santa? The Easter Bunny? The Grim Reaper?" I smile to show how much I love teasing her and that it's done entirely with love.

"Sort of a mixture of all three, really," she returns, deadpan, then adding:

"Nappy's on back to front, John," as she leaves.

Sherlock arrives a little after four, and I'm pretty chuffed to see him, since his familiarity brings back all sorts of warm nostalgia for Baker Street, and honestly, I sometimes can't quite believe he's still here. We drink coffee in the kitchen while Mary makes a fuss of him, which he secretly loves.

"Three types of biscuits? I am truly honoured Mary."

"Ah, you deserve it for unparalleled godparenting duties, and you know how I love to bake."

"Yes. Yes I do."

 **~x~**

I'm a bit perplexed.

"So - not a case then?"

"No."

Sherlock Holmes is noticeably discomforted. Awkward, even. He sighs.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a cold sweat prickles across my forehead as a sweeping realisation takes hold. Sherlock glances up at my face, which clearly needs no additional words to inform him.

"No, John, _no_. It hasn't come back. _Please…_ "

I metaphorically clutch at my thumping heart and give him my full and undivided focus.

"Then you'd bloody well better tell me," I say.

And he does.

 **~x~**

(Sherlock POV)

 _"_ _I could not see you; I did not know - "_

John sits back in his chair, arms folded and his wonderfully open face battling a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. This I would normally enjoy, but today I am beyond agitated and need his wise words and experience.

"You dreamt you were married? With children? _You?_ "

And the questions continue, much as expected, and I nod.

"Married - to Molly Hooper?"

I nod again.

He shakes his head a little, attempting to organise what I've thrown his way with the most basic of filing systems.

"And these dreams… were they… vivid?"

"Very. I lived them as I'm sitting here, living this."

John nods slowly, images dancing in his headspace.

"I see."

 **~x~**

Molly Hooper and I, you should know, are good friends.

I am more proud of this than I can say, since our initial dealings were a little more than expectation and a little less than kind. Arrogance, blind indifference, showboating and shameful cruelty - I could not deny each epithet should anyone have brought me to bear each time I let her down - therefore our current status is testimony to her limitless patience and forgiveness, and my own hankering to make amends. As I slipped between worlds with no sense of permanence or actuality, she held fast, tethering me to both with strength, compassion and unconditional love. In both universes that fought for dominance in my misfiring synapses, she mattered.

 _So now…_

We walk to Bart's (exercise being _so_ necessary) on days I need to, always detouring through the park in the lighter evenings when the bandstand is alive with sound. We share an appalling addiction to box sets; most recently _CSI, Game of Thrones_ and _Dexter_. (Molly is keen to win me over to _Fargo_ , but I find myself drifting.) Now that John is married and of little use to me of an evening, Molly will sometimes accompany me to NSY if I require an interpreter for those who only speak _Idiot._ In return, I have mended a leaking tap in her kitchen, caught a rat by her bins and fixed her locks on no less than three occasions. In addition, when Molly's neighbour became a little too persistent in his _neighbourliness_ , I took it upon myself to remind him of his estranged wife in Weymouth and pending restraining order. I am also proud to say that I have assisted greatly in Molly's student assessments (Sanderson's latest appalling imposition), although she did admit that 'some editing' was necessary prior to their submission before the hospital board.

Thus - amiable; fine; _good_.

John Watson has been watching me intently, but patiently during what must be the most rambling monologue I have, to date, set before him. Words seems certain and decisions foolproof, and yet…

"What is it that you _want_ , Sherlock?"

He leans forward in his armchair, a bubbling confection of seriousness, concern and empathy emanating from him in waves. His question is simple, yet I baulk, confusion clouding my brain once again.

"What do you want from Molly? As far as I can see, she is a good and supportive friend, with infinite patience. You may have stepped over a few boundaries lately, but she knows you well enough to get over that sooner or later. Before you know it, you'll be getting on as before, monopolising the equipment in the lab, watching _Game of Thrones_ or _Strictly_ and deducing innocent victims for each other's amusement. She'll tell you off from time to time, and you'll sulk a bit before deciding her next date is a psychotic murderer with a single-minded mission to rid the world of soft cheese, or something."

He sits back, an (annoyingly) inscrutable look taking hold of his features, and folds his arms.

"Just say you're sorry."

"I did."

"Then say it again, maybe with added flowers and a trip to the pub."

Abruptly, Mary walks in, bringing their baby and holding him out to me.

"Or," she comments, casually, "You could just say that you love her and that you don't want there to be any more 'next dates'."

Sholto writhes and squirms, grasping at my collar, my hair, weighing heavy in my arms.

"Yes, " John adds. "There's that too."

 **~x~**

* * *

 **a/n:**

 **Come on Sherlock, even Sholto knows what you should do.**


	18. Normal Again

**EPILOGUE: REAL**

* * *

 ** _"_** ** _I think I could have loved you better than anyone, and I can't stop making lists of all the times I almost told you that."_**

 **(Caitlyn Siehl)**

* * *

 **In another time, another place...**

Dappled sun casts its patina across the gravel path before them where the bright green leaves of the sycamore trees form an avenue, shading them from the midsummer haze. She pushes the buggy, despite the fact that its occupant has absconded and is currently chasing a small, white butterfly as it darts, like light itself, ahead of her. Her gangly, dark-haired boy lopes alongside, adjusting the rubber bands on a balsa-wood plane he hopes to launch (just as soon as the breeze lessens sufficiently, to ease its progress along the leafy runway). He is tall now; ten years old and the same height as she (perhaps a little more, even), and she sees how he will someday become a man and wonders if she will ever be ready for that. Abruptly, as if sensing her eyes upon him, he glances up, Icelandic, beautiful eyes peering through dark lashes.

"Shall I go and get her, mum? The path gets a bit steep round that corner, and you know how fearless she is."

Her heart seems to burgeon to twice its size as she nods, choked a little at the undiluted kindness of her unique boy.

"Viola! VIOLA!" Benedict chucks the plane (suddenly forgotten) into the seat of the empty buggy and takes chase, feet crunching, long legs powering, tee shirt buffeting around his skinny torso. "Come back! Mum _said!"_

And Molly Hooper pushes with a renewed vigour, since they have places to be this afternoon, and people to see.

~x~

The fountain looms high above, a cascading torrent of foaming, frothing, bubbling water, gushing from huge, serpentine creatures and copper burnished dolphins, and sending a fine spray of mist out over the stone balustrade. Scarlet, apricot and pale pink rhododendron bushes surround the edifice, like pretty bridesmaids attending upon their statuesque bride, and shimmering, tiny rainbows glimmer through the water droplets in the air, like iridescent fairies. Molly and Ben sit across from the Benedictine Fountain at the far end of Marylebone Park, eating apples and drinking pink lemonade whilst three year old Viola leaps and claps small, dimpled hands through the air, trying to catch rainbows. Molly smiles. She was so like her father.

"I remember, mum." Benedict's voice cuts across her thoughts, bringing her back. "I remember when you and Daddy came here and got married… I remember Sholto and the bubble bath in the fountain … John and Mary were so cross with us…"

She ruffles his wavy hair, wild and untameable, curling across his forehead and brushing his collar.

"No they weren't cross with you, my darling, they were cross with Sholto."

"You knew it was him?" His eyes were wide at the memory of long ago terrors. "All along?"

"Oh yes," smiles his mother. "You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to work it out -" She crinkles her nose, as if reliving a memory of her own. "- but, luckily, he was there too."

 **~x~**

A low hum thrums through the honey-scented air around the hives as the utterly focused worker bees trace their endless journeys - back and forth, back and forth, over and over, until death - to serve their queen. The hives were still in excellent condition thanks to the dedicated apiarists at Marylebone Park, and it seemed that her wedding present to Sherlock was thriving in his absence.

 _("Yes, frames. Well, Sherlock, just so that we are clear – you are now the proud sponsor of more than a couple of frames of bees down here at the Park. You will be visiting the grand total of two hundred and twenty one frames of bees, housed in twenty five hives. What do you think?")*_

Sherlock`s bees had produced a delicately flavoured (sage, rosemary, lavender influences) honey which had sweetened tea, drizzled over cakes and glazed toast for almost three years in and around Baker Street.

"Beeezzz!" announces Viola, waving at them from the safety of her buggy. "Daddy's beeezz!"

And they buzz and hum, continuing their endless cycle, without question and without cessation, doing their level best to keep the planet ticking by.

 **~x~**

Molly watches her daughter dance an excited little jig as her brother hands her an ice cream, her impatience and anticipation palpable and undeservedly charming. She did much as she pleased and far too frequently escaped the wrath of others, owing to her glittering pale amethyst eyes, charcoal lashes and a certain supercilious expectation that all around her would bend to her will (which they usually did).

Molly reaches for her phone as it buzzes, an undeniable and powerful nostalgia flooding through her for the umpteenth time that day. This is what you get, she decides, flicking through her messages, for coming here again so soon; this place was everything to them- the backdrop of their love affair; every corner, every flower bed, every topiaried hedge reminded her of him.

 _God, Molly Hooper._

 _Get. A. Grip._

And reading the message, she smiles, a dimple appearing in her freckled cheek and a calmness descending, wrapping softly around her heart. The children are looking into a birdbath, ice creams temporarily forgotten and dripping, like white emulsion, onto the dry, lichened stones of the pathway. Her fingers tingle and her breathing quickens since she no longer hears the shouts and squeals of other park users, no longer notices the thud of shoe leather on football in the open field across from the fountain, fails to see the mother duck and her babies crossing the path towards the lake in the distance. Molly Hooper stands, pushing away from a buggy she no longer has eyes for, and the buzz and thrum, hustle and bustle of life in the park fades away until only one sound remains:

The crunch of a confident stride along the path beyond the chrysanthemum beds; closer it comes, and increasing slightly in speed…

She walks slowly forwards, phone still clasped in her right hand, also picking up pace, past the bright, bobbing heads of orange, golden, russet and searing yellow flowers, all nodding their approval in the gentle breeze.

 _Quicker, Molly Hooper._

The crunch of gravel footsteps has also quickened, and she finds her own feet matching them, moving forward; closer…

 _…_ _closer…_

Then -

Strong, pale hands, grasping her shoulders; long arms in rolled shirtsleeves pulling her, almost off her feet; rough, stubbled skin and dirty, lank hair brushing against her face and leaching the heat from his sweat-soaked body onto her sundress, her shining hair, her pale, soft skin. Molly finds that she is lifted from the ground and held hard against a hot, filthy body that smells of bitumen, petrol, soil and… chlorine(?) and that she absolutely and utterly _could not_ be happier about all of it.

"Molly Hooper," he says, lowering her, looking at her, _seeing_ her. "You are instantly bewitching me beyond all reason, and you know how I favour reason above all else."

Her heart is singing, soaring and she reaches up pointlessly to wipe a little grime from beneath his astonishing eyes.

"Hello Sherlock," she smiles, hearing the yells of their children approaching from behind, "it is so very wonderful to see you, and may I say, you have _never_ looked better."

 **~x~**

Later, in their bed, watching the curtain ripple softly, buffeted by a cooling eastern breeze…

"Will our reunions always be this way?" She rolls out from beneath his lolling arm, causing Sherlock to huff gently into his phone as he fires off multiple texts to numerous interested parties.

"Mmmm. You have made me frail and weak with your witchcraft, Molly." He throws the phone atop the bedside cabinet, where it skitters to a halt millimetres from its edge. "I am without resistance or immunity to the phenomena of you."

His eyes are bright, his dark hair wet, glistening in the dim light from numerous washings, and his face smooth, swept clean of the hard, secretive pursuits of the past week. He is thinner, noticeably so, and twitchy, edged with a residual brittleness from this most recent case. She would never want him to stop since it was his lifeblood, his sustenance, his _definition_ \- but it sometimes wore a little too much at her heart when he was gone too long. Especially since _that_ time.

They had prepared for the worst - feared it, but Mycroft Holmes was never going to let his baby brother hit the ground. A fall with only one survivor.

 _("Everything I might say regarding the outcome of this evening has already crossed your mind, no?"_

 _"_ _And then my answer to your question must have already crossed yours.")_

 _("I am always prepared, John.")_

An elderly man with nothing left worth living for; a man whose genius allowed him to acknowledge that nothing now was ever going to come to any good, and that a fitting end was the one owed by his sworn enemy. Without its maleficent spider at the centre, his weakened empire had shrivelled on the vine, crumpled to dust and was blown by the east winds into the four corners of the earth, leaving nothing in its wake. With the Professor gone, the malaise that had slid, insidious inside the heart and mind of Sherlock Holmes - wrapping its inky-black tendrils throughout - retreated inch by inch, leaving him clear and sound and whole again. No trace of feverish pain nor weakened limbs, no fretful, sweat-soaked nights, no dreams of portents or forebodings blurring and feathering the borders between imaginings and reality…

 _No more uncertainty._

Thus, Sherlock - strong now in mind and body - turns across crumpled sheets towards a woman he will _always_ turn towards when the night is dark and his thoughts are livid, bright and without prudence, and he wraps a silken strand of her luminous hair around his pale, long fingers, letting it fall. He gently touches her smooth forehead, her nose and the soft curve of her mouth.

"Lying in a filthy flop house for three days and crawling through waterlogged tunnels for miles, seeing nothing but the dirt and dregs of this town is only bearable because I know I can find the light at the end."

She smiles at him, tipping her head and crinkling her lovely dark eyes, sparkling, sparking, _alive._

" _I'd_ better be that light, Sherlock."

And he laughs, pulling her onto him, wrapping her around him, his talisman and protection.

"It is more than probable, Molly Hooper," he says as they lie still at last.

 **~x~**

 **In another time, in (oddly enough) the same place...**

(Sherlock POV)

She looks up, squinting eyes into the bright, vivid, dancing beams of light, refracting, reflecting through acid green leaves being tossed by a summer breeze. The slight gust ruffles her lilac skirt, rippling it around her knees in a silken caress and she puts out her arms, turning around slowly as the petals blow over her in a reckless flurry of pale pink blossom. Loose from its band, her hair swings past her shoulders, flaming amber caught in a single moment where the sun touches it, and everything is moving, turning, changing, realigning, like a solar system, like a map of my own heart.

I have known her for so long, and taken so long to know, that love is not something you haphazardly find in a sudden, bursting revelation (to me, at least) - it is more a choice to be made, a path to be chosen. A year ago I saw how love might look (in another time, another place) and ever since, I cannot be as I was before, placing feelings apart and locking them away as if they might make me less. Love may be family, children, legal promises and suchlike - it might also be quiet, private, personal, _precious_ \- but I now know that it is a conscious effort of devotion that is lived and tended to each day, with rewards that far outnumber such efforts. John may scoff that love cannot be quantified or analysed with any kind of scientific measure, but I do believe it to be a living, breathing organism, which requires measured and continued input, depending upon its variables.

This change in me, however, I can not fully quantify - _The tumour? The coma? The vivid tricks played out across a struggling mind ..?_

Molly is stilled now amongst the petals (like a long-ago dream), no longer looking up, but directly towards me, eyes glowing like molten amber, skin flushed like the blossoms themselves. She is slightly breathless and I feel heat radiating from her body, still dappled in the sunlight.

"Sherlock, you looked so far away," she says, sweeping back a strand of hair, precipitating a multitude of falling petals. "Are you ok?"

I listen to my own heart, as I have been told how strong it is, and hold out my hand.

"I love you," I say, since it is the most normal, abnormal and extra-ordinary thing in the world.

And she smiles.

"I know," she says, her fingers entwining in mine.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **a/n:**

* _Taken from The Best Man: Losing John Watson_

 **Thank you to everyone who followed, favourite and reviewed this tale of disjointed time and tremulous reason. I have a few theories as to the explanation behind this, but my favoured is two parallel worlds, only overlapping when the walls between them weaken (reasons being illness/altered states of consciousness etc) and single, childless, unknowing Sherlock was allowed to see his life as it could have been (and could still be!) Thank you for indulging this whimsy, you have been... lovely. :)**


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